CATCH COLT
by NokuMarieDeux
Summary: Responding to a mysterious summons from an old friend, Murdoch Lancer discovers that not all bundles of joy arrive in blue baby bunting.
1. Chapter 1

**• • • • • ****PROLOGUE • • • • •**

_Chapter 1: _**THE MYSTERIOUS SUMMONS**

_9 April 1871_

_"__My dear friend Murdo,_

_First of all, allow me to apologize for not having kept in closer contact these past few years. I've never forgotten your kindnesses, good faith and loyalty during those early years of struggling to establish my legal practice in Sacramento. I look back with some measure of regret at having to depart your fair valley in order to advance my career in San Francisco, and that my subsequent removal to Los Angeles placed an even greater distance between us. The prospect of entering into partnership with Isaac Ogier in the City of Angels was simply too bright to ignore and, as it turned out, well worth the gamble._

_If you will excuse this unseemly display of pride, I am pleased to advise that Cameron, Ogier, Eaton, Kewen, Howard & Cameron is presently regarded as the premier law firm here (the additional Cameron being, of course, my son James). Izzie Ogier, Ben Eaton, Ed Kewen and Vole Howard have all gone on to serve as Los Angeles County prosecuting attorneys. I might have done so myself had not health and mobility issues necessitated my semi-retirement from active practice._

_I do continue to keep in the loop, as they say, so I am more or less up to date on your current status. I am most pleased to hear that your ranch prospers, and that you have been reunited with your long-estranged sons! I regretted to hear of the unfortunate incident which brought you together and trust your health continues to improve._

_That being said, I now arrive at the purpose of this communique. In the process of settling the estate of a long-time client—a lady of our mutual acquaintance and cousin to my wife—there has arisen an awkward matter of a somewhat delicate nature which requires your personal attention. A discreet and speedy resolution is to be desired. As executor of the said estate, James strongly suggests that—in view of our longstanding friendship and our respective relationships to the aforementioned personage—I should be the one to apprise you of the situation._

_Rather than trust to the vagaries of the United States Postal System, I am requesting that upon receipt of this missive you attend me at my residence in Santa Monica with all possible haste, health and circumstances permitting. The firm of Cameron et al will of course underwrite your travel and lodging expenses. However, Luisa Regina and I would be both pleased and honored to have you as our guest for as long as you wish to stay—or as long as is necessary—thereby combining business with pleasure._

_Please excuse the mystery surrounding this request, Murdo, but the matter is one of some urgency and must remain absolutely confidential for the time being. What you choose to do (or not do) once this information is in your possession is entirely your decision._

_Very truly yours,  
>Trey (Campbell Chase Cameron III)<br>Santa Monica, California_

_RSVP via telegram_


	2. Chapter 2

**• • • • • ****FRIDAY, APRIL 22 • • • • •**

_Chapter 2: _**THROUGH A STAGECOACH WINDOW**

**Rancho Canoa Relay Station, midday...** Carefully refolding Trey's letter, Murdoch Lancer reinserted it into an inner vest pocket and resumed strolling about the station grounds... not that there was much of interest to see—the barren landscape was devoid of any hint of green and held no appeal for a rancher from a comparatively verdant region. Close by, the other five passengers on the Bakersfield-to-Los Angeles run were also stretching their legs while awaiting replacement of the four-up hitch by the six horses required to haul the heavy coach up the brutally steep grade to Fort Tejon Pass.

Feeling every one of his forty-eight years in muscle and bone, Murdoch was already ruing his decision to undertake the trip to Los Angeles in person rather than insisting that whatever his old friend had to tell him be transmitted by mail. All morning he'd been mulling over the letter's contents and for the life of him couldn't think of any issue concerning the lady that was so sensitive he needed to make this arduous three-hundred-mile journey.

Murdoch had had lots of time for introspection as the miles unrolled. Hours and hours. His onboard companions had lapsed into morose silence, it being too noisy to converse without shouting. They—and he—stayed busy coughing up road dust and blowing their noses into their handkerchiefs.

**_Pilar del Marín... _**Good Lord! He hadn't thought of her in years... hadn't wanted to as his memories of the beautiful young woman he'd once thought he loved were not happy ones. Looking back, of course, he understood it had been more of an infatuation that probably would have withered of its own accord. True, he hadn't loved her as deeply as he had his long-departed first wife Catherine, who died bringing his firstborn son Scott into the world, or as fiercely as his second wife Maria, mother of his second son John. Nevertheless it had been the beguiling Pilar who'd pulled him from the abyss of despair into which he'd fallen after Maria had decamped with their child.

Murdoch had taken to drinking, fighting and whoring with a vengeance, trying to bury the hurt and the memories... all but abandoning his ranch and the responsibilities that went with it. If it hadn't been for the combined efforts of Trey Cameron and Paul O'Brian, his best friend and _segundo_ of Lancer Ranch, all would have been lost. But the two of them had persevered, time and again dragging the bereaved man out of saloons, cathouses... and jails... until they finally succeeded in sobering him up and setting him back on the rails of respectability. Judging their friend's extended period of mourning had worn itself out, Trey and his Cuban-born wife Luisa Regina had invited Murdoch for a prolonged stay at their Sacramento residence... and introduced him to a cousin of hers, visiting from the island.

**A picture of Pilar del Marín** leaped into Murdoch's mind, fully-formed as she was in the summer of 1851... an exquisite porcelain doll with glowing emerald eyes and a cascade of gleaming mahogany hair tumbling about her shoulders. The young woman embodied all the best characteristics of her predecessors—as refined, genteel and well-educated as Catherine, yet as alluring and seductive as Maria... although Pilar's passionate nature lay concealed beneath a polished façade. By the end of the first month they'd become lovers and Murdoch had whisked her away to his _estancia_, where they'd enjoyed a further eight weeks of glorious intimate abandon in the face of disapproval by almost all of Murdoch's friends, neighbors and associates.

Murdoch was beginning to contemplate a future together with Pilar, although the sting of Maria's betrayal still hung heavy on his heart and technically she was still his wife—wherever she was. He wasn't free to offer marriage right away. Which was just as well... Pilar had her own agenda.

Murdoch clearly recalled their last night together. They had just finished making love. He announced his intention to file for a divorce from Maria Madrid on the grounds of desertion, and declared his desire that he and Pilar be married as soon as could be arranged. Her response had shocked him to the core.

Pilar acknowledged that while she very much _liked_ the Scots immigrant, had indeed become very _fond_ of him, her future plans did not include him. With almost clinical detachment she went on to explain that she was _already_ married. The reason she'd run away from Cuba was to escape a loveless union and seek a secular divorce, which she'd never have been able to get at home. Campbell Cameron, her cousin's husband, was her attorney. In the meantime she was petitioning Bishop Eugene McConnell of the Grass Valley Diocese to grant an annulment. Although the Catholic Church didn't officially condone or grant divorce, a marriage could be invalidated for any number of reasons if enough money crossed palms into church coffers.

And there was someone else... another man whom she intended to marry as soon as she was free... who currently was away in South America on a business trip, otherwise she would have already been with him. Astounded at such a cold-hearted admission, Murdoch had wordlessly dressed and left the room without a backward glance. He'd gone to the barn, saddled a horse and ridden aimlessly through the hills until late the next morning. When he returned to the _hacienda_ she'd already packed and gone. He'd never heard from or seen her again.

Murdoch had come away from the affair with a heart in ruins and a hardened resolve to never again trust another woman. In the years since he'd held firm to that resolution, kindly but firmly turning away casserole-bearing widows and other females hopeful of snaring themselves a wealthy rancher.

At first supportive of Pilar's quest for freedom and pleased that their handsome grass-widower friend proved willing to squire the young woman around and keep her occupied, the Camerons were appalled at how callously Pilar had used Murdoch. It wasn't until many months later and a painful reconciliation with his friends that Murdoch was able to assure them that he placed no blame on them—he understood that Trey's professional relationship with the woman had precluded disclosing her marital status, and he believed them when they swore they had no knowledge of the 'other man'. Luisa Regina had later admitted that while they were uncomfortable with such a blatant display by Murdoch and Pilar, they accepted that interference on their part would be unwelcome. Both parties _were_, after all, over twenty-one.

Living so far apart, Murdoch and Trey kept in touch mostly by mail these days. The Pilar affair had long been filed away under ancient history best left undisturbed. So why was he doing this? Was it out of pure curiosity over a 'mystery'? A sense of obligation to his old friend? An old man's whimsy about the fate of an old flame? What could her estate possibly have to do with him almost twenty years later?

Murdoch's ruminations were wrenched back to the present by the driver's call to reboard. He took one last look at the panorama of _La Cañada de las Uvas_—the Canyon of the Grapes—through which they'd be passing in order to cross the Tehachapi Mountains. Behind him lay the southern reaches of the San Joaquin Valley. Ahead, on the other side of Tejon Pass, lay their next stop—the Gorman relay station. Then came Liebre, Mud Springs and Delano, where they'd overnight. The next day it would be Chiminez, Moore, Rice, Lyon and—finally—Cahuenga Pass into the Los Angeles basin. Already he was dreading the return trip.

**Once again wedged** into a forward-facing window seat, Murdoch resumed his ruminations right where he'd left off. His decision to embark on this trip had come about as a result of a conversation over dinner on the day the letter had arrived—Saturday the sixteenth. Jelly and Teresa had picked up the mail from the post office on their Saturday morning market run to Morro Coyo, but it had been Johnny who carried it into the study where Murdoch was working at his desk.

"Letter here from some law office down Los Angeles way..." Johnny said, in his off-handed way that advertised he was a lot more interested than he wanted to let on.

"Alright. Just put it down with the other mail..." Murdoch hadn't even looked up.

"Aren't ya gonna open it? Might be something important."

"I'll get to it in a minute."

"Aren't ya even _curious._" For a man notoriously tightmouthed about his own business, Johnny could be maddeningly inquisitive about other people's.

"Don't you have something to do somewhere else?"

**They were halfway through** the evening meal when Johnny said, apropos of nothing they'd been discussing, "Murdoch got a letter from some lawyer in Los Angeles... didn't know we had business down there. Pass me the rolls, will ya, Jelly?"

"_We_ don't." Murdoch speared another chunk of steak and chewed. "_I_ do. And don't talk with your mouth full."

Scott glanced at his father. "Trouble? Pass the salt, please."

"No, son. No trouble."

"Been my 'sperience, any time ya mess with lawyers, ya got trouble," Jelly opined, nodding his head knowingly. "Hey... who et the last pickle?"

"Maybe someone left him some money... or else someone wants some," Johnny chipped in. "Anyone want more a these 'taters?"

"So you're not going to tell us?" Teresa teased. "Just going to let us to wonder about it? Don't forget to leave room for dessert... peach cobbler tonight!"

Murdoch threw down his napkin in exasperation. "Can't a man have a little privacy in his own home? John, take your elbow off the table."

Scott took a long sip from his wine goblet. "Look, brother... if he wants to share, he will. If he doesn't want to, it's not our business. Move on."

Johnny looked injured. "Don't hurt to ask. I mean, we're all in this together now... if he's got law trouble... we're here for him. Isn't that right, brother?"

"I'll thank you not to speak of me in the third person... I'm sitting right here. The letter's from an old friend of mine, inviting me to come for a visit... that's it. That's all. Satisfied now?"

"When does he want you to come?" Teresa inquired ingenuously.

"Soon."

Johnny sniggered. "Oh well then... we don't hafta worry none."

"Meaning what?" This from Scott.

"Meaning he's not about to go off somewhere with spring roundup not a week off. He doesn't trust us enough to get the job done on our lonesome!"

"That's not true!" Teresa objected. "He trusts you! It's just that you've only been here nine months and you don't know enough about..."

"I'm _still_ sitting here..."

"We did pretty damned good enough on fall roundup..." Johnny snorted, adding sarcastically, "...for a couple of greenhorns. But he still treats us like we don't know anything."

Murdoch kept his head down, knowing with a sinking feeling where his younger son was going with this.

**It'd been only nine months** since Murdoch Lancer had been reunited with the sons he hadn't known during all their growing-up time, hadn't even seen in nearly two decades. They were still finding their way as co-owners of Lancer Ranch, and with the man they were just now coming around to respect as their father. He hoped. It had been a rocky alliance at first and he'd many times despaired that his plan—his heart's desire—wasn't ever going to come to fruition. However, their uneasy triumvirate—while not exactly meshing like clockwork gears—was at least limping along productively with fewer and fewer bumps as time went on.

Neither of the boys had known of the other's existence until they'd been summoned, separately, by their father to help him drive out would-be landgrabbers and fortify his hold on the Lancer empire. Bringing them together—and back to him—had been a long shot but the only one Murdoch'd had left.

As unalike as Scott and John were, it had taken them a surprisingly short time to initiate with each other a bonding process that was still evolving. It would take a very much longer time before that would encompass the father, even though the misunderstandings over their heretofore lifetime estrangements had been sorted out... mostly. And together they'd managed to vanquish the interlopers... for the time being.

Among Murdoch's self-acknowledged faults were a regrettable tendency to micromanage and to assume that all his directives would be taken as gospel by his underlings. His first mistake with his sons was in not taking into account that they were grown men with ideas and aspirations of their own... young men, to be sure, but not children to be ordered about at whim... or told to get elbows off the table or not talk with mouths full.

Twenty-six-year-old Scott was reserved, unfailingly civil and viewed every undertaking with caution and pragmatism. Though disinclined to argue he wasn't hesitant about defending his position—politely, of course—when disagreeing over some matter with his father. Scott was dependable and seemingly immune to distraction—you could give him a job and never have to worry that it might not get done. Scott's cultured, well-modulated speech had a crisp Eastern inflection and he rarely employed colloquialisms.

Twenty-three-year-old Johnny had a voice like sun-warmed honey, soft as a summer breeze with a subtle Latino cadence. If asked, he would have claimed Spanish as his primary language and English as secondary—in practice he spoke both with equal fluency. He was free-spirited, uninhibited, argumentative and quick to take offense—but rarely raised his voice. In fact, a noticeable drop in register usually indicated a corresponding rise in temper. To his father's chagrin, he was exactly as one would expect from a youngster who'd somehow survived adolescence in the absence of any adult guidance, lived by his wits and his fast gun, and did exactly as he pleased. Murdoch was intrigued, often aggravated and frequently appalled by this enigmatic offspring who could morph at lightning speed from playful youngster—displaying a childlike innocence and curiosity—to stonecold shooter behind an impassive façade.

Both Lancer sons were intelligent but there existed a gaping chasm between the ways each _absorbed_ new knowledge...

Scott was more amenable to following orders, having been raised by a strong-willed and imperious grandfather and also having served in the military during the Civil War. He was accustomed to paying strict attention to instruction, eagerly taking in everything he was taught in order to best comprehend any particular subject. He'd been quick to understand the business side of ranching, what had to be accomplished in order to generate income and profit.

Johnny was no less intelligent but completely at sea with the nuts and bolts of ranch operation. His formal schooling—limited to basic reading, writing and ciphering—had been provided by nuns at a succession of Catholic orphanages... until he was old enough to look after himself and use a gun. Johnny listened to only as much as _he_ determined he _needed_ to know before taking action.

The boys had been with him only a few months when fall roundup rolled around. As neither one had any prior experience with cattle, Murdoch'd had a very short time to acquaint them with the operation. They'd attacked the accelerated learning curve with determination if not as much enthusiasm as he might've wished... and had done well enough, considering. Even with a greatly reduced workforce—some seventy-five _vaqueros_ less than the usual complement of one hundred-fifty men—fall roundup had gone remarkably well, with enough beeves going to market to ensure the ranch's financial stability throughout the winter. Murdoch had only the previous month started explaining to Scott and John the much more involved process of _spring_ roundup.

**Back to that dinner...** With exaggerated deliberation, Johnny folded his napkin and laid it next to his plate. Pushing back from the table and getting to his feet, he folded his arms in the now familiar defiant pose. He spoke softly. "Maybe you haven't noticed, old man, but I'm as grown as I'm gonna get. You give Scott real responsibilities but for me it's 'go mend that fence, Johnny'... 'go clear out that creek, Johnny'... like I'm some retard who couldn't pour piss out of a boot..."

"That's enough, John."

The father's equally quiet reprimand quelled the diatribe but not the pain and resentment in the son's eyes. Johnny's stance relaxed into one of resignation. "Guess I'm not much good for anything around here besides killin'..."

Murdoch's heart dropped... what the boy said was true to some extent. Scott had taken to ranch life so naturally that Murdoch'd had no qualms about putting his number one son in charge of certain areas that required a modicum of education and management skills. Finding suitable slots for number two had been confounding, however, as Johnny's abilities defied categorization in relation to ranch work.

At that moment Murdoch recognized he was being presented with a rare—perhaps unique—opportunity to demonstrate faith... and trust... in his younger son—in both his sons although this had never been an issue with Scott, who'd been raised to assume an elevated position of leadership in a more civilized society. A leader born and trained, Scott had no more problem accepting the authority of those occupying higher rungs on the ladder of power than he had exerting that same authority over those below. He exuded an aura of self-assurance whether it be from the bottom of a drainage ditch he was helping dig or, from astride a horse, pointing a finger for a peon's edification. Scott had no need of protective coloration—he knew who and what he was and what he was capable of achieving.

John had no such confidence aside from his mastery of firearms and his own survival instinct.

Three pairs of eyes swiveled Murdoch's way in anticipation of his response. Carefully putting down his fork and knife, he chose his next words just as deliberately. His gaze traveled from one face to another, finally coming to rest on Johnny's.

"If I may be allowed to speak, I have something to say. John, would you sit... please?"

Johnny hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then acceded.

"I've decided to take my friend up on his offer."

Four pairs of eyebrows shot up on four faces radiating a kaleidoscope of reactions.

"You mean... you're going? Now?" Scott was the first to recover. "What about roundup?"

"Murdoch... you can't be serious...?" Never in Teresa's recollection had Murdoch _ever_ been away from home during this crucial period. Oh sure... he hadn't _physically_ been able to oversee operations during the many months of his recuperation from being shot in the back and hip... but Cipriano Melendez, in taking over Paul's position, had consulted with Murdoch at bedside every single day.

Although Jelly'd been in residence only four months himself, he couldn't conceive of Murdoch—or any proprietor of a cattle ranch—going off on a pleasure jaunt right at the busiest time of the year.

Johnny wasn't easily or often startled... but this was one of those times.

Murdoch continued as though announcing a trip to town for a few hours. "Of course I'm serious, missy. When's the last time I took a vacation?"

"I... er... I don't remember that you've _ever_ taken one..."

"Well, it occurs to me that I'm not getting any younger. The boys've been around long enough now they shouldn't have any trouble getting things underway while I take a week or two off for myself, don't you think?"

Scott was frowning and drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "Sir... I'm not so sure we're ready to..."

"Of course you are. I have every confidence you and your brother can work out logistics and oversee the men. Teresa can keep the bookwork up to date, and she and Jelly together can handle supplies and reports."

"But sir... we..."

"Let's see... today is Saturday... I'll need one of you to ride to Morro Coyo Monday morning to get a telegram off to my friend. I'm thinking I'll take the Saturday morning stage out—that'll put me Los Angeles sometime late next Sunday afternoon."

"But sir, are you sure...?"

"Go on, everyone... finish your meal before everything gets cold. Don't want to upset Maria Elena!"

Murdoch blithely sailed on, fervently hoping the expression of calm confidence he was attempting to project wasn't betrayed by the ocean of doubt heaving below. Did he feel in his head they were ready? No. Did he feel in his heart this was a necessary gamble? Absolutely.

"In fact, there's no reason I can't leave tomorrow... forget about Morro Coyo. One of you can drive me into Green River tomorrow afternoon and I'll stay with the Goldman's for a few nights... been owing Jake and Reva a visit for quite a while. I can send a message ahead from there, take the Wednesday morning stage to Bakersfield and stay at the Southern Hotel. That'll break up the trip into more comfortable segments..."

Murdoch essayed a glance in Scott's direction just in time to catch Scott looking back with a clandestine wink and a suggestion of a grin playing on his lips. Oh yes. Scott had caught on... he knew exactly what his father as up to... and why. John, on the other hand, was chewing his food mechanically in earnest abstraction. Except when in full-on Madrid mode, Johnny had difficulty concealing his emotions. Right then he appeared to be vacillating between confusion and elation.

**Despite Murdoch's extravagant pronouncements** at dinner, he'd remained riddled with worry and indecision about leaving the ranch in the hands of others. Before climbing on the spring wagon for the thirty-mile trip to Green River he'd extracted promises from both sons that they'd accept guidance from Cipriano Melendez, the foreman, in making preparations for roundup. He assured them that this wasn't a reflection on their competency... merely a reminder that the man who'd been born and raised on the _estancia_ knew as much or more about its workings than the _patrón_ himself. His advice was invaluable.

Murdoch had acquired the original 16,000 acres in 1843 for cents on the dollar from an impoverished grantee _ranchero_, with the proviso that the dozen Mexican workers' families already living there—including the Melendezes—be allowed to continue in service. As the Lancer _estancia_ grew over the years, Cipriano had gradually risen through the ranks to third in command after Murdoch's right-hand man and friend, Paul O'Brian. When Paul had died a year ago in the same ambush that had crippled Murdoch, Cipriano had held the ranch together until his _patrón_ was able to resume control. But the two of them—along with the seventeen remaining stalwart _vaqueros_ who hadn't been frightened off by repeated attacks—had been unable to overcome the menace of land pirates... which was why Murdoch had resorted to appealing to his long-estranged sons for assistance.

Finding Scott—raised and firmly grounded in Boston—had never been a problem. Locating John was another matter. Murdoch Lancer had been among Allan Pinkerton's first clients when the detective agency opened for business in 1850. But where to start searching for a two-and-a-half-year-old half-Mexican child in the vastness of America's western lands?

The case started out cold and stayed that way until four years ago when Murdoch journeyed down to Chula Vista to acquire some brood mares from a rancher who was having some success breeding palominos. Hopping across the border to visit one of Tijuana's more notorious drinking establishments, they were regaled with accounts of the ongoing Franco-Mexican struggles and mini-uprisings, which apparently involved quite a few American mercenaries. One name kept popping up: an eighteen-year-old up-and-coming halfbreed gunslinger who went by the name of Johnny Madrid. Maria Lancer's maiden name had been Madrid.

Neither 'Johnny' nor the surname 'Madrid' were all that uncommon... but the age was right and the coincidence of names couldn't be ignored. It was the slenderest of links... no more than a gossamer thread, but enough to send Murdoch home and back to the Pinkertons with renewed purpose. It took them three more years to successfully close the case of the missing son... and that only seconds before a firing squad did its ugly work. By that time the young gunfighter had acquired a fearsome reputation. He was, as they say, a made man...

Murdoch was so submerged in thought that he almost didn't notice the stage had come to a halt at their overnight stop.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3: _**EN FAMILIA**

**Lancer Hacienda, later that same evening...** Arrayed in the _hacienda's_ greatroom were John Madrid Lancer, _former_ gunfighter of no small notoriety, and Scott Garrett Lancer, _former_ Bostonian gentleman of leisure—along with their father's ward and surrogate sister Teresa Angelica O'Brian and Jellifer Barnes Hoskins, the family's general factotum. Scott was occupying the easy chair to the left of the fireplace, long legs elegantly crossed as he perused a week-old copy of San Francisco's _Pacific Appeal_. Facing him in the matching chair to the right of the fireplace, Jelly snoozed with his face covered by a recent edition of the Havilah _Weekly Courier_. Teresa was tucked into one corner of the sofa, stitching on a bit of fancywork, with Johnny inelegantly sprawled out on the rest of it, his bare feet only a few tantalizing inches away from the girl's hip. Suddenly he arched one foot and prodded a big toe into her ribs, right in her tickle spot.

"How about a footrub, _chiquita_?"

"Dream on!" she snorted, not dropping a stitch.

"Pretty please?" He made smoochy noises.

"Don't you _'chiquita'_ me!" Teresa swatted the offending appendage with the edge of her embroidery hoop. "Get those smelly feet away from me!"

"Hey... my feet don't stink! Just washed 'em yesterday," Johnny grinned lazily. "So how about it? Been on 'em all day an' my dogs're barkin'."

"Then why don't you take them to town and let them bark at Consuelo, since you and she are such good friends and all?" the girl snidely suggested.

It was an open secret around the ranch that Johnny was carrying on with Consuelo Ramirez, now that the sloe-eyed _former_ Lancer laundress had abandoned her domestic position in favor of more lucrative employment in the _burdels_ of Morro Coyo. What no one seemed to realize was that until she'd physically removed herself from the premises, Johnny wouldn't have touched her with a barge pole—his credo being you don't play where you stay. However, that didn't stop him from flirting shamelessly with any female from newborn to nonagenerian.

Weeks before Consuelo had run off, Teresa'd overheard a discussion between Murdoch and Cipriano... who were under the mistaken impression that the girl and Johnny were already embroiled in a torrid affair. Would Johnny do right by the young woman should the need arise? Shaking his head with chagrin, Cipriano had informed his _patrón_ that should it ever came to pass that a finger needed pointing, there would be many others to blame besides Johnny—it was common knowledge that Consuelo had the roundest heels on the _estancia_.

Johnny poked Teresa again and she hit him again... harder. "Stop it!"

"Ow! You're gonna break my toe!"

"John... you're not in second grade. Don't make me have to come over there," Scott intoned, not even looking up from his paper.

"No call for her to beat up on me!"

"No call for you to annoy her, either. If you can't behave like an adult, go to bed and leave us in peace."

Johnny truly didn't get that Teresa wasn't in a mood for horseplay. Scott did. He knew, or thought he did, why she was being so quiet and uncommunicative this evening... and he was correct. The memory was still too fresh and raw in her mind of the night Murdoch and her father had ridden away but only one man had returned. You would think that by now Johnny would've cottoned to the fact that the girl got this way every time her surrogate father was away from home. Only five days gone and already she was fretting.

"Don't worry, Teresa... Murdoch's going to have a great time down there in Los Angeles with his lawyer friend. Everyone needs time off every now and again. And a man his age..." Scott had folded the paper and was regarding her kindly.

"He's not old! Don't you ever think he's too old to..."

"Now, now! I wasn't saying that. I just meant a little relaxation before spring round-up would be beneficial... I hear it gets a little frantic around here at that time."

"You have no idea!" Teresa paused in her needlework and looked at Scott.

"Of course I don't... that's why I'm looking forward to it."

"It's hard, dirty, stinky, bloody work, Scott. You're not going to enjoy it as much as you think."

"You don't mean to tell me Murdoch allows you to...?"

"Well... why not?" Her voice was laden with scorn. "I can ride as well as any of you. I can handle a rifle... and I know ten times as much about cows and this ranch as you do! Don't forget... I've lived here all my life!"

"I'm not disputing that, Teresa... it's just that... oh, never mind!"

**The four of them** were taking full advantage of the absence of the _pater familias_, who would have been mortified to observe them taking their ease in anything other than full dress. Under a short royal blue velour robe he called a 'smoking jacket' (a remnant of his Boston wardrobe) with matching house shoes, Scott sported a new style of men's sleeping attire in gray silk called 'pajamas'—imported from England and all the rage in San Francisco. Jelly wore an old-fashioned blue-and-white striped cotton nightshirt with a faded plaid maroon flannel bathrobe, decorously pulled down over his bony knees, from beneath which protruded scuffed doeskin mocs run down at the heels. Teresa's coordinated ensemble included an ankle-length passionkiller flannel gown and ruffled wrapper all in seafoam green with matching kidskin slippers. But it was Johnny who looked the most naturally relaxed in his cotton drawstring peasant pants and billowing pullover shirt, the very whiteness of the material emphasizing his tawny skin and cerulean blue eyes. Add a _sombrero_, _serape_ and _huaraches_ and he wouldn't have looked out of place among any group of Mexican _peon_s—his mother's people—except for those eyes.

It had been Teresa's suggestion, actually. On Saturday afternoons—paydays, everyone hurried to get chores done as early as possible... the singles so that they could get cleaned up for an evening on the town. The marrieds scurried to feed, bathe and bed their offspring in preparation for early Mass on the morrow. Usually Johnny would be right at the forefront of the bachelor brigade headed to the nearest watering hole... but at dinner he'd announced he was planning a quiet evening at home for a change. His three companions in the great room, suspicious of his motives, were waiting for the other shoe to drop but so far all he'd done was lie on the sofa with eyes half closed and occasionally humming to himself.

They didn't have long to wait.

"One of us shoulda gone with him," Johnny suddenly declared.

Teresa looked up accusingly. "Why didn't you speak up when he said he was going!"

Scott rolled his eyes. "The two of you act like he can't be let out on his own. May I remind you the man has managed quite nicely without our supervision for almost a half century!"

"Here lately every time he _does_ go off on his own he gets in some kinda trouble!"

"Brother, I think you're confusing Murdoch with someone else in this room who shall go nameless..."

"No... Johnny's right..." Teresa argued. "One of you should have insisted on going along. Who's this Mister Cameron? Why does he need Murdoch to go all the way to Los Angeles to settle some old woman's estate?" Too late she realized she'd slipped up.

"You read his private correspondence?" Scott accused with a moue of disapproval.

"Ain't nobody got no sense a privacy 'round here," Jelly commented. "A man's bidness orter be a man's bidness..."

Teresa blushed. "Well... he left it right there on top of the bureau... he knows I go in there to make his bed. If he minded me reading it, then he would've put it away, wouldn't he?"

"I can't believe you did that, Teresa. Snooping is rude..."

"What else did the letter have to say?" Johnny inquired.

"Just that there's some funny business—something very secret—and Murdoch needs to sort it out in person."

"Involving a woman? Woohoo!" Johnny crowed.

"Listen you two..." Scott interjected sternly. "We are **_not_** discussing Murdoch's private life. He received a letter requesting that he journey to Los Angeles and he went. Period. End of discussion!"

"What're you, my mother? I already got one, brother... and you ain't it!"

Teresa sighed. "Boys... could we please not fight? We all have a lot to do tomorrow. Don't forget... we have luncheon guests coming..."

**Early on, Murdoch had stressed** the importance of maintaining solid friendly working relationships with their neighboring ranchers, of having firm allies in the myriad difficulties that faced them all—from water resources, drought and disease, to rustlers and land pirates. To that end he'd made sure his sons had been introduced all around at the West Central Valley Stockmen's Association meetings.

As the most prominent and influential landowner, Murdoch customarily hosted a luncheon and strategic planning session at the Lancer _hacienda_ prior to spring roundup each year. As time went on it had evolved into a two-part festivity in which the men were served first, afterwards being shooed into the greatroom for cigars and brandy while the women cleared the dining table for business. Once the men were reinstalled in the dining room with survey maps spread out across the table, their womenfolk retired to their own private hen party in the central courtyard.

This year's affair had been scheduled weeks in advance and it would be the first one without Murdoch in attendance.

Teresa bit her lip. "Might I make a suggestion about this year's seating arrangements since Murdoch won't be here?"

"What about them?"

"Even though Murdoch left you in charge..."

"Left _us_ in charge... _both_ of us!" Johnny interjected.

The girl rolled her eyes. "Yes... and that's the problem... there's only one head of table..."

"And your suggestion is...?" Scott asked.

"These people know Cipriano and have worked with him for years... he usually sits to Murdoch's right, where my daddy used to sit. They don't know you and Johnny so well... Scott, if you're at the head they might tend to disregard Johnny and we don't want that. I think it would be a good idea to place Cipriano at the head with you on his right and Johnny on his left... that'll be a good way to avoid favoritism and also show respect for his age and position..."

"Who cares where anybody sits? Grub's grub," Johnny scoffed.

"No... she's right, brother... it's called protocol and it's important. Haven't you ever attended a formal banquet?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth Scott wished he hadn't said anything, knowing his sibling could be right touchy about his lack of sophistication when it came to social customs.

Johnny bristled. "Can't rightly say I ever have... _brother_."

"So anyway..." the girl continued, "as there's no guest of honor, all our attendees being equal, let's have Vicente at the foot and Jelly to his right. The visitors can seat themselves as they choose." Vicente Serrato was Cipriano's underboss.

Scott nodded his head in approval. "That's a satisfactory arrangement, Teresa... very... er... democratic."

"Where the ladies gonna sit?" Jelly inquired. This would be his first formal affair also.

"Ladies? What ladies?" Johnny demanded. "No one said anything about women."

"Don't get your hopes up, Johnny," Teresa laughed. "He means the wives who'll be coming along. We'll be having our own party while you boys are getting down to business."


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4: _**ROUNDUP 101**

**Lancer Hacienda, midday... **Earlier that month, Murdoch had conducted for his sons a refresher course in roundup operations...

The one hundred fifty-six-plus thousand acres of the _estancia_ were contained in an irregular, elongated pentagon along a northwest-southeast axis. Its western half was cradled between lofty ridges jutting out from the coastal Diablo range to the west, and consisted of the wide, grass-floored Cantua valley surrounded by rolling hills and plateaus. The eastern half sprawled into the mostly flat bottomlands of the central San Joaquin valley, which also provided abundant grazing.

Water resources were plentiful, beginning with deep springs feeding Cantua Creek as it wended its way eastward from the far northwestern corner of the ranch on its way to the San Joaquin river basin. The eastern boundary of the ranch was delineated by hundreds of acres of tule marsh—a no-man's-land beyond which lay two other ranches rivaling Lancer in acreage. Smaller ranches spanned Lancer's northeastern boundary—beyond them lay the town of Spanish Wells. Other spreads formed the southern boundary on opposite sides of the town of Morro Coyo. Altogether, these fifteen ranches made up the West Central Valley Stockmen's Association.

Bux Road was the only public thoroughfare having a county-granted right-of-way through Lancer property, running north-south between a relay station situated six miles east of Spanish Wells and another in Morro Coyo. Being the only primary stage route on the western side of the San Joaquin valley, it was surfaced and maintained by the Butterfield Stage Company.

Another lesser-traveled road, known as Yokut Trace—named for the natives who'd originally inhabited the region—was little more than a meandering wagon track. Technically this was a private road connecting the _estancia_ to Spanish Wells and Morro Coyo, but the original grantee had always allowed public passage to the locals and so did Murdoch Lancer. Where the track crossed over Circle N property to the north, the owner was equally obliging.

**While the majority of Lancer's cattle** conveniently clustered in the easily accessible bottomlands and canyon floors where grass was lush, a huge number of them foraged up into the hills or down into the swamps, from which they had to be first located and then flushed out. That wasn't even counting the hundreds of square miles of open range adjoining these fifteen ranches in all directions. In fact, Murdoch reckoned one-quarter of Lancer's twenty thousand-plus head were roaming somewhere outside the ranch proper—along with hundreds of his neighbors'.

The biannual roundups were the times when the agreements and constraints of association membership were most needed and put to the test. Cattle have no respect for unfenced boundary lines, so the first week or so entailed sorting out mingled herds by brand. When disputes over ownership arose, as they invariably did, adjudication was by a five-member elected committee. Of necessity and by mutual agreement, the usual rules of tresspass were suspended during roundup weeks.

The nucleus of the Lancer ranch—the _hacienda_ and its outbuildings—lay centrally in the western half of the _estancia_, at the mouth of Cantua Canyon. Radiating like spokes from a hub and strung out at more or less equal intervals inside the perimeter were five named line camps—Osprey, at Top Mesa near the headwaters of Cantua Creek; Falcon at the North Mesa and two miles west of the Trace; Condor, directly east and sandwiched between the stage route and the Trace; Eagle, near the Vista Cielo lookout on the South Mesa; and Hawk, in the extreme southeastern corner near Fern Falls.

Among the smaller ranchers, volunteers traditionally pitched in to help one another during roundups or other seasonal operations, and community events such as barn raisings. But larger enterprises such as Lancer were obliged to employ temporary help for roundup season... even when they weren't suffering manpower deficits. The labor shortage caused by the landgrabber raids of the previous year had chased away so many workers that everyone was going to be in the same bind... a problem that had been discussed at length at the last meeting of the association.

In order to avoid bidding wars on available help, the members had agreed to offer comparable wages, with each of the major ranchers doing their recruiting in different towns on different days. Straws had been drawn to determine who got what town and when. Notices had been posted in Morro Coyo to the effect that Lancer would begin hiring on Monday, April twenty-fifth. One could only hope that Lancer's reputation as a fair employer attracted the best and most knowledgeable. Additionally, Murdoch had instructed Cipriano to be on the lookout for candidates for full-time employment. They needed to bring their workforce up to full strength—not just to mind livestock, but to restaff other critical positions needed to maintain what was, _de facto_, a village unto itself.

Murdoch was aiming for actual roundup to commence beginning the week of May first. The statistics involved were enough to make the boys' heads spin. Murdoch had pointed out that, as an example... say an even half of the gross number of cattle were females and half of those were yearling heifers too young to reproduce, that still left—optimally!—five thousand cows with calves at heel... five thousand calves that had to be branded and/or ear-notched and/or castrated. Add to that whatever maverick yearlings they turned up that had managed to evade roundup last year... and, well, they were looking at untold manhours... and that wasn't counting delays due to weather and accidents. The entire operation could last anywhere from three to five weeks, depending...

Scott had blanched and Murdoch had chortled. "Oh, don't look so glum, boys... those figures aren't even near realistic... there might be only two or three thousand calves!" And then he'd moved on to the ways spring roundup differed from fall.

Each camp required a crew of thirty to forty men. The cattle would be handled in successive batches of around five hundred head with half the men busy circle riding—herding, penning and sorting cattle or wrangling the hundred-plus horses in their remuda. The other half were needed for roping, wrestling, branding and castrating. And that was just the day crew.

Crews all had to be fed three times a day, which necessitated cook, assistant cooks, chuckwagons. The hard-ridden horses required more sustenance than forage alone. Every few days supply wagons would be delivering to each camp hay and grain for the horses and food and supplies for the men.

Although Scott's brain had been reeling with the sheer immensity of numbers, he'd understood the logistics well enough... they weren't that much different from maintaining an army in the field. He was looking forward with great interest to seeing how well military field support applied to ranching.

Johnny's mind had boggled at the mention of the five thousand calves as he tried to envision them all in one enormous herd of baby cows. They wouldn't be, of course, but still... He wasn't at all convinced he _wanted_ to be a rancher... all that responsibility! But neither could he go on the way he'd been living... especially now that he'd developed a taste for civilized life, for eating well and not going hungry, for being able to sleep soundly and without fear on feather mattresses, for being surrounded by people who cared for him. Oh yes... he knew they did and hoped that someday he could find it in himself to return as good as they gave. But it was so hard... so very, very hard... trying to live up to what they wanted him to be... to pay attention and to _unlearn_ being on the defensive, on guard every waking moment...

Scott and Johnny would be taking their turns with hands-on field work in due course, but Murdoch's primary objective in this first year of their residence was to train them up as ranch managers. Murdoch's vision for the not-too-distant future was that each of his sons and his ward would marry, settle down, raise a family and build a home somewhere on their shared acreage. More than anything he hoped he lived long enough to see that.

**In the days since Murdoch's departure** Scott and Johnny had been divvying up areas of responsibility and outlining plans, with oversight from Cipriano and Vicente. They'd decided, for instance, on separating hiring duties so that Scott and Cipriano together would focus on cowhands, given that Cipriano knew the most about handling cattle. Paired with Vicente, who dealt almost exclusively with the ranch's equine stock, Johnny would take on wrangler selection. Tomorrow morning the four would be riding into Morro Coyo to see what turned up in response to their advertisements for temporary hands. Hopefully there'd be a decent crop of workers to choose from and they'd be done in a few hours. Some of the new hires, if they had their own mounts, would be riding back with them that same day. Others would have business to settle first and would arrive the following day. Still others, with no horses of their own, would be collected the following morning in the ranch's big stake-sided haywagon.

Instruction from the two Mexican bosses then shifted to the intricacies of inventory and supply to the outlying camps. Each camp had its own boss with an aide d'camp—generally the head cook—who also served as medic and quartermaster. The boys wouldn't be involved in this—requests and fulfillment would be between camp quartermasters and the Jelly/Teresa team at the _hacienda_. Cipriano and Vicente would rotate among all five camps in a general oversight capacity, with the Lancer sons at their sides as observers... and students.

Before the next step was taken, however, all the new hires had to be temporarily quartered in one of the barns (which had been emptied of horses, thoroughly mucked out and replenished with fresh, clean straw), and fed in shifts in the communal chuck hall. The next few days would be devoted to making camp assignments, issuing instructions, gear and mounts to each man, and generally making ready to begin moving out by the end of the week. In the meantime, advance crews of permanent workers and supply wagons would be sent out to each camp site to effect repairs to any permanent structures needing such, pre-position water reservoirs, and stockpile firewood in advance of the camp crews.

**Today, Cipriano Melendez presided** at Murdoch Lancer's place at the head of the table, flanked by the patrón's sons. Vicente Serrato sat at the foot with Jelly to his right. Arrayed along both sides of the long table were representatives of neighboring ranches—Conway, Keene, Driscoll, Hoffman, Hackett, Cervantes, Nelson, Cousteau, McDaniel, Santee, Simmons and Ferguson. One of the regulars was conspicuously absent, regrets due to family emergency having been sent, and another—a newcomer to the area—who'd ignored the invitation altogether.

Sitting in for their ailing father were Donnie and Dougie McDaniel of the Triple D. The twins were the first personal friends Scott and Johnny had acquired since coming to the valley. Well over six feet tall, the identical redheads worked hard and played hard; they delighted in finding new ways to shock 'Boston' (having borrowed Johnny's nickname for Scott). Not in the least intimidated by the younger Lancer's fearsome rep, they endlessly teased and tormented Johnny and often instigated fistfights when the four were out drinking together. Neither one could hit the side of a barn door with a pistol so they rarely wore gunbelts and knew there was next to no chance Johnny would ever draw on an unarmed man. Jaime Cervantes and his brother Carlos of Rancho Mariposa were the only others even close to the Lancer brothers in age. All the other men were peers of Murdoch's... or older.

Any reserve on the part of the older ranchers toward Lancer's city-bred scion was soon dispelled by Scott's consummate grace in the role of host—he'd been rigorously schooled in Boston's upper circles of society, after all. Unfortunately, they weren't doing so well in warming up to Johnny, whom they'd previously encountered at association meetings and in infrequent passings elsewhere and whose past exploits were not unknown to them. Ironically, although it was that very reputation that had helped save Lancer—and by extension several of their neighbors—they still maintained a cautious distance. Lancer he may be... on the outside. But on the inside he was still Johnny Madrid. Gunfighter. Killer.

All through the meal Johnny spoke little and then only when spoken to, melting away as soon as the men arose to adjourn to the greatroom. After settling their guests, Scott went in search of his brother. He found him perched on one of the adobe walls encircling a side garden, resting his chin on arms wrapped around drawn-up knees.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Scott demanded, letting his irritation spill out. "We have company. We have business matters to discuss. You need to be in there with us."

"I don't _'need'_ to be anything, brother. You're doin' right fine by yourself."

"What's the matter with you? Isn't this what you wanted... more responsibility? The respect due you as a Lancer? Are you so blind you can't see why Murdoch made a spur-of-the-moment decision to run off and leave us in charge... whether we're ready or not?"

"Maybe he just had a wild hair."

"No, Johnny. He's done this for you... for us... to prove he believes in us. Don't you get that?"

"I get that I don't fit in with these folks. Never will. They're afraid the poison'll rub off on 'em."

"Poison? What on earth are you talking about? Of course they're a little spooked around you... who wouldn't be? That doesn't make you any less important to our meeting today."

"I don't know jack about cows."

"Neither do I. Cattle aren't the only issue on the table. There's security... that's where your expertise is needed, brother. We may've run off the big dog but there's plenty of smaller ones around. We need you to point them out and advise us how to keep them in check before they become bigger dogs. That's called 'threat assessment' and you're our expert."

"Scott... just leave me alone, willya?"

"You're embarrassing me."

"Like I care?"

"Embarrassing the house, then. Murdoch."

"I'm already an embarrassment, just bein' me. Halfbreed border scum. That's all they see."

"Could you stop feeling sorry for yourself for one damned minute?"

"Murdoch didn't know what he was gettin' when he called me here."

"Maybe not... but he knows now and that doesn't set him back any. He wants to help you turn your life around... we all do... if you'd just let us. If you'd just unbend enough to let us into your world..."

The brotherly contretemps was interrupted by the arrival of Teresa at the garden gate. Teresa, Maria Elena—Cipriano's wife and head cook/housekeeper—and Vicente's wife Rosamunda had been in the kitchen since sunup preparing for the arrival of Christie, Fiona and Moira McDaniel, Siobhan Keene and Mary Frances Ferguson, Miranda and Linda Cervantes, and Devora and Shoshanna Hoffman. Each of the ranchers' womenfolk had brought covered dishes representing cultural delicacies to round out the feast. After serving the men and cleaning up the dining room and kitchen, the ladies were repairing to the courtyard for their own refreshments and entertainment, where kitchen staff who'd had the morning off would now wait on them.

Noticing the men hadn't yet moved back to the dining room and that the brothers weren't among them, Teresa told the ladies to go ahead, she'd be along shortly. A short recce had brought her to the side garden where she stood hidden in the shadows for a few minutes while Scott remonstrated with Johnny in a louder voice than he should be employing with guests in the house. The normally mild-mannered blonde was twitching with anger.

She stepped forward and—instead of asking if there was a problem (obviously there was) or what it might be—quietly reminded Scott his presence was required elsewhere.

"Fine! See what you can do with this jackass!" He stormed off, leaving the girl looking upward at Johnny's unhappy mien.

"Don't you start on me, too, _chiquita,"_ floated down.

Teresa shrugged. "Wasn't planning to. Can I do anything to help, Johnny?"

"No. Don't think so. Thought I was up to this but I ain't."

"If you'd like, I'll go in there and make apologies for you... tell them you've come down with a migraine headache and had to lie down... or something..."

"You'd do that for me... lie like a rug to Murdoch's friends?" He almost smiled. "Why?" He slid off the wall and stood in front of her. "You don't even know what's going on."

"I don't need to know, Johnny. But what I _can_ see is that you're distressed by something that can't be fixed right away. You don't have to go in there with those men if it's going to upset you... I don't care what Scott thinks right now. If Murdoch were here he'd tell you exactly the same thing. He'd make up some cover story. Look... I have to get back myself... but I want you to remember two things, John Madrid Lancer. Number one: You're as good as any man in that room. This is a business and social gathering, not a showdown—you've nothing to 'prove' to these people. Number two: You are loved and wanted under this roof. By every one of us. Never, ever doubt that for one moment!"

Johnny watched her walk back into the house. He was slowly coming to comprehend that—in this alien society, anyway—there were many ways other than brute force to earn respect, that backing away from a confrontation didn't necessarily constitute cowardice. Of course, this clashed with the professional gunfighter's ingrained belief that one never, ever refused to address a challenge. To do so was to admit a weakness of character. Five minutes later he rejoined his brother and neighbors.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5: _**IN THE CITY OF ANGELS**

**Los Angeles/Santa Monica, late afternoon... **The stage rolled into Butterfield's north Los Angeles terminal under chilly overcast skies. The station was bustling: the southbound to San Diego loading and two incoming from Nevada unloading at the same time. Murdoch didn't see his party among the throngs welcoming new arrivals or engaging in tearful farewells but was soon approached by a smartly dressed black man easily as tall as himself.

"Mister Lancer?"

"I'm Murdoch Lancer."

The man gave a gracious but not obsequious bow. "I am Cicero Curtis, sir... Mister Cameron's manservant. Mister Cameron regrets that he is unable to meet you in person due to his incapacitation. He's sent me to collect you."

Murdoch frowned. "Incapacitation? He didn't mention anything about that in his letter."

"I'm sure all shall be explained. In the meantime, sir, if you would allow me...?" Curtis hefted Murdoch's portmanteau and Gladstone with ease, nodding toward their waiting conveyance—a one-horse shay with a calash top.

With the luggage stowed in the boot, the two clambered aboard the single bench seat which didn't offer much elbow room for two unusually tall and broad-shouldered men. Apologizing for the tight fit, Curtis tched to the mare between the shafts and they moved out onto the equally busy street.

"Mrs. Cameron was concerned for your comfort after such a long journey. She wanted to send the surrey but I pointed out to her that we'd get back to the house in half the time with the shay. Mister Cameron concurred. As you can see, the thoroughfares become quite congested at this time of day and the Camerons' home is outside the city limits, in the Santa Monica Heights." From the man's easy manner, educated speech and demeanor, Murdoch gathered he wasn't a former slave and probably occupied a higher than menial position in the Cameron household.

"No need to apologize, Mister Curtis."

"Just Curtis, sir."

"Well, Curtis... compared to the coach, this is like being in my own easy chair at home. If it's not too much of an inconvenience, I'd like to stop at a wine shop and a flower shop along the way... don't want to greet my hostess empty-handed."

The black man smiled, giving a nod of appreciation. "Excellent idea, sir. As it happens, there are several of each right along our way. Mrs. Cameron is fond of flowers... she'll very much appreciate them."

Curtis accompanied Murdoch into both establishments to assist in making selections. Soon they were approaching the urban limits and following a narrow though well-maintained road that meandered upwards through a canyon toward a high bluff overlooking the burgeoning village of Santa Monica. Along with four other palatial homes on a circle court, the Cameron estate occupied a windswept crest with a splendid view of Santa Monica Bay.

It had begun to rain by the time the shay pulled up under a porte cochere. Murdoch alighted with wine and bouquet in hand while Curtis extracted his luggage. A small brown boy with a headful of tight black curls appeared out of nowhere to take charge of the horse. A doppelgänger with untidy braids and a pinafore met them at the door, followed closely by a diminutive woman in a lilac-colored silk dress, her silver hair in an elaborate coif.

"Murdoch! Here at last. I've so been looking forward to seeing you!" Luisa Regina Perez Cameron all but threw herself into his arms. "For me? Oh, how splendid!" The woman buried her nose in the mauve, pink and white lilies. Turning to the girl child, she handed over the offerings. "Petra... sweetheart, go and put these in water in a vase right away and ask your _abuela_ to uncork the wine so it can breathe... tell her we'll have it with dinner."

A deep voice called out from another room. "Is that you, Murdo? Lulu... don't stand there dithering, woman... bring the man in here and offer him something to drink!"

Luisa rolled her eyes and took Murdoch's arm, but stopping him before he stepped forward. "Quickly... I must tell you something before we go in..." she whispered. "I don't want you to be shocked or make a big deal of it... but Trey's in a wheelchair."

Murdoch _was_ shocked. "A wheelchair... what happened...?"

"I'll let him tell you. It's been very difficult for him, adapting. We're not making light of the situation, you understand... but his doctor advises it's important we go about our lives as if nothing's out of the ordinary..."

"I understand, Luisa. Thanks for the heads up."

They proceeded arm in arm down the corridor and entered a spacious greatroom with one wall of sheet glass panels overlooking a terraced patio and the bay far below. A fire crackled merrily in a huge fieldstone fireplace, with comfortable seating arranged around a low square table. Murdoch's friend was ensconced in an overstuffed chair with his feet on an ottoman, legs covered with a tartan blanket. The unoccupied wheelchair stood in a corner.

Trey Cameron held out his right hand in welcome, genuine pleasure glowing on his ruddy face. "Murdo! Pardon me for not arising... but..."

"Yes. Luisa mentioned." Murdoch grasped his hand firmly. "How are you keeping otherwise? You're looking healthy and prosperous... and Luisa hasn't changed a hair. Just as beautiful as ever!"

"Get away, ye auld windbag!" the lady in question mimicked with a perfect Scots accent and laughed. "I can't imagine how you've been allowed to run at large for so long... I'll bet widows have been lining up at your door for years. Can I get you a Lagavulin...?"

"You certainly may... a double!"

"Coming right up! Refill, Trey?"

"Yes, please. Sit, Murdo... sit. I've been warned by my lady wife that we have only fifteen minutes before your bath is ready and I'm to let you rest before dinner is served."

Accepting the cut glass tumbler of golden liquid from his hostess, Murdoch admitted he was in dire need of a good scrubbing and a nap wouldn't be amiss either.

"But I'm interested... no, anxious... to hear what it is you've brought me here to talk about."

"All in good time," the other man said. "It's a bit convoluted and will take a while to explain. Luisa will need to be in attendance as well. Tomorrow might do better, if you can contain your curiosity until then."

"I suppose I'll have to... just remember, Trey, patience was never my long suit!"

"As if I could forget! Well then, let's catch up on news first... you're probably wondering how I've come to be a wheelchair jockey but too polite to ask, so let me tell you about it... there's this horse I _thought_ I could handle..."


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6: _**THROUGH SCOTT'S EYES**

**Lancer Hacienda, evening... **Scott Garrett Lancer was pretending to be absorbed by his newspaper when in reality he was watching his brother and Teresa in his peripheral vision, thinking back to the day he'd first met them after a long and generally uncomfortable journey by rail from Boston to Stockton, followed by a decidedly unpleasant trip via stagecoach from there to Morro Coyo. Dusty, sweaty and travel-worn, he'd disembarked the coach to be accosted by a young woman claiming to be his father's ward.

His initial impression was of a simple country girl in her Sunday best daygown complete with bonnet, gloves, reticule and high-button shoes... certainly not a female of the social stratum he was accustomed to mining back home, where she would've been taken for a below-stairs maid on her half-day off. The ramshackle town itself, hardly more than a wide spot in the road, showed nothing to recommend itself. Was this 'ranch' of his father's as tumbledown and shabby? Was the man himself going to be some smelly, gap-toothed, illiterate geezer?

But before Scott had a chance to complete his assessment he was presented with possibly the rudest shock of his life: the even dustier and sweatier, less than aromatic and obviously halfbreed individual the stage had picked up ten miles out from town turned out to be his _brother_... a half-brother he'd never ever heard about!

The girl's nervous chatter during the first five minutes only reinforced Scott's conviction he'd arrived at the back of beyond. The first chip in this outlook occurred when she took up the reins and proved to be as competent a driver as any male. The next adjustment to his initial impression came when she halted the rig at the crest of a ridge—Vista Cielo, she called it—and waved an arm to encompass the dramatic view of mountains encircling a long, narrow valley, at its mouth a sprawling assemblage of buildings more extensive than some of the small towns through which he'd traveled. This—all of this breathtaking landscape as far as the eye could see—was Lancer.

Like aftershocks following a seismic event, more surprises were in store: the magnificence of the _hacienda_ itself, the imposing bulk and forbidding aspect of his father, the revelation that this newly-revealed brother wasn't just an ordinary cowboy but a renowned gunfighter.

The biggest surprise, Scott found, was in himself—agreeing to his father's offer and terms, accepting the challenge, deciding to stay after all when that had most definitely _not_ been in his original plan. Neither had it been this 'brother's' plan. Then in the midst of this improvised 'family reunion' they'd all had to respond to a fire alarm. Men, women, children... strangers and residents alike... they'd all labored together. By the time the conflagration was finally quenched, Johnny, too, had come around to the idea of staying on.

**After a brusque dismissal** by their father and before being shown upstairs to their rooms, the two young men were led directly to the kitchen where a small rotund Mexican woman screamed and threw herself at the younger man. Too shocked to resist, Johnny just stood there as the little woman hugged and kissed and sobbed all over him. His eyes appealed to Teresa's...

Teresa threw her head back and laughed before coming forth with an explanation as much for Johnny's benefit as Scott's—Johnny'd been born on the ranch and Maria Elena'd been his _niñera_ the first two years of his life... but, of course, he couldn't be expected to _remember_ her...Whether he did or didn't was immaterial—he put on a mighty convincing act, wrapping his arms around her, lifting her up and swinging her around. And there was a suspicious glittering in the supposedly hardhearted killer's blue eyes.

At the time, feeling like the odd man out here, Scott had experienced an alien emotion—envy—and couldn't help but wonder how different might his own childhood have been with a Maria Elena in it? He'd never known his own mother, who'd died giving him life, and he'd been reared by a succession of paid substitutes... wetnurse, nannies, governesses. He'd had every advantage a child needed or could want except loving intimacy. He'd been raised to honor the memory of his mother as a saint, perfect in every way... but every once in a while he wondered if in reality she would've been just like all the other Garrett women in his life—cold and distant toward children.

Through a short hallway, a wide kitchen door stood open to a covered patio, admitting barefoot children, dogs, cats and the occasional chicken which all wove indiscriminately between everyone's legs. Everywhere could be heard peals of laughter and snatches of song. Were the people here always so light-hearted and happy?

Scott Garrett Lancer had only _started_ to realize how different Californians were from Bostonians...

**In America's nascent Gilded Age**—whether a hilltop mansion in Seattle, a stately townhouse in New York City, a summer estate in Newport or a plantation house in New Orleans—all the so-called 'great houses' had one feature in common: a domestic staff that customarily rolled out well before dawn to prepare the residence for the awakening of family and guests. While the routine was no different at the Lancer _hacienda_ in California's San Joaquin Valley, the organization of its human resources certainly was...

The lady of the house in a more strictured social circle would have been shocked senseless at the perceived _lassez-faire_ management techniques that prevailed here—where in appearance servants were almost indistinguishable from residents, and an unseemly familiarity existed between classes.

There were no specialized niches in this household—maids-of-all-departments Ines Mechoso, Nereida Dominguez and Ivelisse Guevarra did a little of everything, interchangeably, together with a bevy of understudies in the form of younger girls. They weren't required to wear uniforms or even shoes. It was understood that female staff at Lancer were generally wives-in-training who would be moving on at some point. Even more distressing was that the sole young mistress of the establishment, having no personal lady's maid, not only looked after her own needs but participated in all the servants' tasks as well! In Murdoch Lancer's tenure there'd been no valets, footmen or menservants of any kind.

Shocking! Simply shocking! But this was California... not New England... and it was a new order.

Jellifer Hoskins in no way conformed to society's notion of a proper majordomo or butler, yet in the short time he'd been in residence he'd relieved Murdoch Lancer of a great deal of menial concerns involved in household maintenance. Likewise, Señora Maria Elena Melendez hardly fulfilled the image of a classic Victorian head cook/housekeeper, but there was never a meal missed or a bed unsupplied with fresh linens.

The general informality on the part of staff took some getting used to on Scott's part although Johnny didn't seem to have a problem with it. Here there were no uniformed footmen, no timorous chambermaids or obsequious valets endeavoring to carry out their tasks unobtrusively. Everyone addressed everyone else by his or her first name without honorifics—other than Murdoch who was referred to as _patrón_ by everyone except Teresa.

The shyly-smiling dusky-skinned maids and their apprentices darted about swishing long black skirts above bare or sandaled feet, their glossy dark hair pulled back into single plaits that swung from side to side. In their brightly colored and embroidered _puebla_ blouses they twittered musically like so many tropical birds. As with all great houses, the immense _cocina_—the kitchen—was the noisy hub of all activity, presided over by the cook/housekeeper.

Within a few days Scott recognized that everyone revered his father—he had their undisguised loyalty... although it had taken many more weeks and months before Scott came to truly understand why this was so. An entirely different atmosphere prevailed in the house of his youth... where the _patrón_—his austere grandfather Harlan Garrett—was neither liked and certainly not loved. Any loyalty there was inspired by fear.

Johnny was of course no stranger to Mexican hacienda-style architecture but to Scott—raised in the midst of Victorian-era gaudy opulence in his grandfather's Boston townhouse—it was a revelation.

He was awed by the rich colors and blended textures of stucco and stone, wood and earth. Everywhere lustrous hand-painted, glazed tiles and mosaics counterpointed the dark richness of polished mahogany. Each room and most of its contents served a useful purpose, appointed with heavy durable furniture and minimal ornamentation. The air was redolent with the mingled scents of exotic flowers artfully arranged in imported blown glass vases.

Scott was fascinated by the way the upstairs bedrooms were arranged along a common gallery overlooking a central courtyard with an intricate fountain splashing into an octagonal tiled pool. Lush greenery flourished in terra cotta containers and dwarf citrus, olive and avocado trees shaded stone benches.

Later, Teresa advised, she would show them the _rest_ of the house—the many rooms that had been gradually closed off and disused as the 'family' had dwindled down to just herself, her father and Murdoch.

**It also came to Scott's attention** that despite her tender years Miss Teresa O'Brian was undisputed châtelaine of the premises. At the same time she interacted with the cook/housekeeper with an air of respect and deferment Scott found puzzling, until he learned that the older Mexican woman had served—in all aspects except biologically—as mother to the young girl since her own mother's death.

Scott had never encountered a specimen of womanhood quite like Teresa, starting with her bouncing unannounced into his room that first morning with an airy 'oh, just think of me like a sister.' Only a few minutes earlier he'd been getting dressed when Johnny had barged in, also without knocking. Scott had been remonstrating with his 'brother' about manners when the girl had caught him partially disrobed. He'd been taken aback to note she was dressed like a boy, with western-style boots and rather snug trousers belted over a man's cotton shirt. Scott considered himself quite the modern cosmopolitan and accepted the eccentric Turkish-style pantaloons called 'bloomers' which had come into vogue in the past few years. But a young lady wearing male attire... and not even at a masquerade? That was going too far!

The next day he came across her returning from the ranch schoolhouse where she taught weekdays, this time sandaled, wearing the ubiquitous long black skirt and embroidered offwhite puebla blouse, obviously without proper lady underpinnings. Scandalous! She must have read the stiff disapproval on his face because she chuckled and tossed back her unbound hair, confiding that she dressed that way on purpose so as not to intimidate her young charges who spoke little or no English and were so in awe of white ladies they couldn't concentrate on their lessons. Which was a logical approach, when he thought about it.

Teresa also proved to be an excellent horsewoman, boldly riding astride in men's britches. He often saw her working right alongside the servants, dressed exactly like one of them... up to her elbows in soapy laundry tubs or bowls of dough, assisting in food preparation, grubbing in the vegetable garden, helping serve at the table or changing bed linens. No spoiled, simpering debutante here!

There were many other aspects of this 'sister-by-different-parents' that he didn't exactly understand—like how she always seemed to know what was going on and who was doing what... or with whom. And the odd, almost speculative looks she sometimes flung his way when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

**Scott stood up** to add a handful of fat lighter chips and another log to the fire a maid had lit earlier so that the greatroom's atmosphere would be cozy and welcoming for the aprés-dinner occupants. An assortment of liqueurs in crystal decanters reposed on a piecrust table nearby, their contents catching the firelight and throwing prisms of color around the room.

Although he'd never admit to having done so, Scott had read his share of the trashy penny dreadfuls so popular back East these days. He'd traveled to California with pictures firmly fixed in his mind of what the heroes and villains of the Wild West looked like and how they acted, only to find that these images clashed with reality. Heroes weren't all tall, brawny, handsome and fearless. Not all outlaws were squat, ugly, ruthless and brutish. Reality, he'd since found, often came in the form of an ordinary, average-statured man—just like his brother—whose fortunes... or misfortunes... had directed him up one path or down another. Except that Johnny Madrid was anything _but_ 'ordinary' or 'average.' And Scott had certainly never equated the term 'ranchhouse' with an edifice as stately as the Lancer _hacienda_.

Something else Scott couldn't ignore was his fascination with the concept of _Johnny Madrid_, gunfighter—a face that had emerged fairly often in the past nine months. Scott sensed rather than understood that _John Lancer_, brother, was a persona still in the experimental stages, still undergoing refinement... with a long way to go. Scott himself was having little difficulty adapting to his new circumstances but for Johnny it was a radical transition to an entirely new mindset and lifestyle.

Scott still wasn't used to Johnny's free and easy manner with women—any and all women. His own upbringing precluded initiating physical intimacies with the opposite sex within his own social class... unless the female in his proximity let it be known beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was amenable to such. If he found a woman attractive and she offered her honor, he wouldn't hesitate to honor the offer... and had, many times. But that was back in Boston, with its huge population and interlocking social circles... where romantic interludes with women of his own caste were achieved through finesse. And of course, bought-and-paid-for in the lower ranks didn't count.

Here the pickings were slim to non-existent... an abundance of Mexican whores and a limited number of white prostitutes in the local villages, if one were so inclined, but very few 'ladies' of a higher order. Not that he'd been one hundred percent chaste since he'd been here...

Scott by now had picked up enough of the lingo to blush at some of the things the saloon girls at Morro Coyo had to say about his not so little brother—not a few of them wondering openly what other qualities the brothers might share besides the name. Johnny never bragged about his conquests but word got around. When the topic arose of Johnny Madrid and his abilities, it wasn't always about his gunfighting skills.

Recently, at the conclusion of a rare but energetically pleasurable engagement upstairs at the Dirty Dove in Green River, Scott had later overheard his erstwhile companion praising _his_ attributes to her fellow social workers awaiting assignments. He'd been terribly embarrassed that first time... but that hadn't stopped him from returning to that particular establishment.

**Scott thought about** the private discussion he'd had with his father after Murdoch had announced his plans to travel to Los Angeles. It had been awkward, to say the least...

"While I'm away..." Murdoch had begun tentatively, not quite meeting Scott's eyes, "I want you to keep an eye on Teresa... and your brother..."

"Meaning what?" Scott had responded bluntly, knowing full well what was meant.

"Just... that... not that I believe Johnny would... but..."

"You don't trust him... might as well say it. You think he has the morals of an alley cat. You're afraid the minute your back's turned..."

"No... no! I wouldn't go that far... he's honorable in his own way... just not exactly in _our_ way, if you catch my drift."

"Oh... I catch it, alright. But I think you're wrong. He's very fond of her... we both are. He'd never do anything hurtful... and neither would I. Don't you think you're being a little harsh?"

"It's not you I'm worried about," Murdoch muttered, "Maybe I phrased that wrong... perhaps I should have said, try to keep him out of trouble..."

"Easier said than done, Murdoch," Scott spoke with a wry smile. "You see him as a womanizer... I see him as an incurable romantic looking for love in all the wrong places."

"Be that as it may... you're not the one having to listen to a litany of complaints and soothe the ruffled feathers of outraged fathers every other week."

"Point taken. I'll try to keep him busy while you're gone, sir... but if I have to, I'll have a brotherly word with him about where the line is drawn."

"I'd appreciate that. And Scott... I have noticed and do appreciate the calming influence you've been on your brother. You've brought a civilizing presence into this home that was sorely missing before you came. As much as I hate to admit it, your grandfather did an outstanding job of raising you..."

"Thank you, sir."

"Even Teresa herself... well... since you've taken up residence she's been making an effort to act more like a lady and less of a hoyden."

"Sir, I'm afraid you give me too much credit... I'm sure there was nothing amiss with her behavior prior to my arrival, but of course I have no way of comparing..."

Murdoch sighed. "Still, I worry that when the time comes... well... that she won't measure up to what a rancher expects in a wife..."

"I understand your concern, sir, but I think she'll make an excellent helpmeet to the man who recognizes her... uh... unique qualities when, as you say, the time comes. She mightn't fit in with Boston debutantes but... things are different out here."

"All the same... it's difficult raising a girl child under these circumstances. Would've been easier if she'd been a boy. Thank God we've had Maria Elena all these years..."

Scott thought, but refrained from saying out loud, how would Murdoch know it would've been easier with a boy? After all, he'd had no part in raising the boys he did have... not that that was his fault.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7: _**INSIDE TERESA O'BRIAN**

**Lancer Hacienda, late evening...** Tomorrow Teresa Angelica O'Brian and Jelly and Maria Elena would be absorbed in making ready for the influx of extra hands on Monday, ensuring that sufficient foodstuffs were delivered to the chuck hall, that the community bathhouse had enough soap and towels, that adequate firewood was stockpiled by the boiler, that extra blankets were provided to the barn-turned-dormitory.

But right now, sitting in front of her dressing table mirror, Teresa allowed her mind to wander as she wielded the silver-backed brush on her thick tresses. Fifty strokes down, fifty to go. When she was small her daddy would do this for her. It was their pre-bedtime ritual until she got too old for it—their private time when he told her about his day and asked about hers, tucked her up in bed with a fairy tale and a goodnight kiss.

It was a terrible blow, losing her father to a murderer's bullet shortly before her seventeenth birthday but—and wasn't this an awful thought?—it would have been much worse if she hadn't thrown herself into caring for Murdoch during his recuperation from the same attack. Though she grieved for her father, she was grateful for the years they'd had together. What if she had never known him at all... as Scott and Johnny had never known _their_ father until they were well into their twenties? And Johnny at least had _some_ memories of his mother whereas she and Scott had none at all.

There was very little Murdoch Lancer's eighteen-year-old ward didn't know about the undercurrents within the Lancer household as well as the mostly Mexican population that supported it—she was a keen listener and an eavesdropper _nonpareil_. And what she didn't ferret out for herself she generally learned anyway from Maria Elena. Her surrogate mother firmly believed in answering a child as truthfully as possible, especially in the case of an adolescent girl—forewarned being forearmed.

When the Lancer brothers had first arrived, Teresa had greeted them with an admixture of eager anticipation and jealous resentment—eagerness because they were something new and interesting to distract her from the routine of ranch life; resentment because for seventeen years she'd been _the_ child of the huge house, and the only white child on the premises. When her own father was murdered, Murdoch had stepped right in to fill the void.

It had been tacitly understood, by both her father and herself although she'd been too young to fully appreciate it, that she stood to inherit Murdoch's empire... and then those two sons had appeared out of nowhere and he'd signed over two-thirds of the whole _estancia_ to them. Later he'd taken her aside and privately assured her that his remaining third was to go to her in his will, that her future was secure and she would always be well-off... no worries.

A few months ago Murdoch had ever so delicately insinuated that he wouldn't be averse to a future union between herself and Scott. She had pretended to laugh that off as a joke. He'd continued, probably unconsciously, to drop subtle hints through glances and comments. Nothing about Johnny, though... never anything about Johnny. She knew Murdoch loved his younger boy as deeply as the older one, but suspected he didn't yet have complete faith or trust in his capricious, fiery-natured son. And Johnny was as yet incapable of demonstrating a great deal of affection toward the man—they were constantly locking horns.

Although she repeatedly reminded herself she _ought_ to be thinking of Scott and John Lancer as adopted brothers she couldn't entirely overlook the fact that not only were they _not_ related to her by blood, they were both heart-throbbingly attractive men.

Having been born and raised on the ranch in full view of the circle of life, Teresa was well-versed in the facts of reproduction. When she had 'become a woman', Maria Elena'd given her a frank birds-and-bees talk... much more explicit than Teresa would have ever received from a genteelly-reared mother of her own ethnicity, who most likely would have employed dainty euphemisms rather than call a spade a spade. How easy it would be to fall into an infatuation with one or the other of the Lancer boys... _if_ she allowed that to happen. And perhaps carrying a romantic entanglement so far as to be put in a position to _have_ to get married. _If_ that's what she really wanted—an early marriage, babies, never leaving this ranch, never seeing anything of the rest of the world. But it wasn't.

**Teresa had never spent** a day in public school but she was as well-educated as any middle-class girl who had. Before she'd been born, charged by the defection of his beautiful but illiterate and uninformed wife—Johnny's mother—Murdoch had been inspired to bring education to the children of his _vaqueros_. To that end he'd had a proper schoolhouse erected and equipped, and a tiny cottage for a teacher. He'd then advertised for one, of which there'd been a succession—all female, all widowed. Teresa had attended six grades in the ranch school along with an expanding number of brown-skinned, brown-eyed, brown-haired kids. At times there would be a black or copper face among them.

At the completion of her sixth year, Murdoch and Teresa's father Paul had discussed the idea of packing the then-thirteen-year-old off to boarding school to be 'finished', as was the custom. The usually biddable and sweet-natured girl had then thrown the biggest hissy fit of her life, absolutely refusing to go and vowing to run away from wherever they thought they were going to send her. A compromise was reached: Murdoch ordered textbooks and copies of the San Francisco school system's high school curricula. Teresa would continue studying at home under the guidance of the resident teacher, who would administer tests at intervals to ensure the girl was keeping up with her class course requirements.

Within three years Teresa had absorbed four years' worth of high school education and fulfilled, with flying colors, the state's requirements for issuance of a high school equivalency diploma. Shortly thereafter the teacher resigned to marry a neighboring rancher. Teresa'd implored Murdoch to let her take up the post. He'd consented, so for the past two years 'Señorita Teresa' had been serving most competently as ranch school teacher. In addition to elementary and middle grades, Señorita Teresa offered tutoring to any of the older teens interested in furthering their educations.

**Teresa had always lived** in the big house with her father. As Murdoch's ward after Paul's death there was no question of her moving out, so the former teacher's cottage—much smaller than any of the twenty bungalows Murdoch had built for the married _vaqueros'_ families—was enlarged and designated the _segundo's_ dwelling. Cipriano and Maria Elena now lived there, their children grown and gone.

Unmarried hands lived in the bunkhouse with their own dining hall and cook. Single females—maids and laundresses not living with their parents and siblings—occupied a spacious cottage close to the rear of the _hacienda_ where Maria Elena could keep an eye on them although it wasn't her job to govern their behavior or safeguard their virtue. Her duty was to school the young _señoritas_ in domestic arts, so that they'd be fully prepared to go into service elsewhere or take charge of their own households upon marriage. And then there were always those few who chose to walk on the wild side.

At the direction of her father, the 'daughter of the house' was not exempt from such instruction and did her share of household chores. Having grown up with the other girls and speaking fluent Spanish, Teresa was accepted as one of their sorority and spent much of her free time in their company, learning quite a bit more about men than just the basics.

Frequent visitors to the dormitory included older sisters and cousins who'd moved away from the ranch—some as wives or maids... others in less acceptable occupations. Of course, these soiled doves were the most interesting and weren't shy about sharing their experiences. Maria Elena knew what they were but chose not to make an issue of it—if the _patrón_ didn't want them on the ranch, it was his business to say so.

Johnny's friend Consuelo, currently a favored attraction at Morro Coyo's primo house of ill repute, was absolutely the least inhibited of the visitors, describing in lascivious detail her steamy encounters with the younger son of the house... '_Lo que un hombre... que Juan Madrid!_' Teresa would listen with rapt attention, envisioning herself in Consuelo's place. Oh my! So when her thoughts turned to the two Lancer boys, it went beyond sweet stolen kisses, pretty words whispered in a virginal ear and petal-strewn paths to the altar. It was SO unfair that the male of the specie was free to roam at large where the female dare not tread—not until she was married, anyway!

Unfortunately, no one ever admitted to a similar encounter with the older one—_el hijo de rubio alto._ A comparison of physical attributes would have been... interesting! Not, of course, that _that_ should be a deciding criterion. Maria Elena had told her on many an occasion that what was up here and here (pointing to her head and heart) was much more important than what was down there (pointing elsewhere).

But in the past six months neither of the Lancer boys had expressed any romantic interest in her whatsoever. They treated her exactly as though she were indeed a blood-related kid sister, with consideration and a protective tenderness... nice in its way but completely exasperating! Teresa suspected Murdoch'd had a word with them early on about their behavior _vis-à-vis_ her person. Since then although both had managed to violate many of his other edicts from time to time—inadvertently or otherwise (Johnny more so than Scott)—in her case they hadn't strayed from the path of propriety. How utterly damned annoying! She imagined that Scott must have led a very cloistered prior existence or—heaven perish the thought!—perhaps he was one of _those_... not interested in women at at all! Or maybe he was just sneakier than his brother.

**Teresa had been the youngest female** at today's tea party on the terrace. Invariably the conversation had turned to her unmarried status. In a region where suitable young ladies were at a premium, nineteen was considered a fairly advanced age to have reached without acquiring a husband or at least a fiancée. None of the ranch women had minced words, either. Christie bluntly put forth her two sons as candidates. Siobhan had a bachelor brother, as did Mary Frances. Miranda and Linda's sons were both married but they had single brothers-in-law. Devora's Marcus was also in need in of a wife and a _shiksa_ wasn't beyond consideration. (Not to mention Murdoch's Scott would be an almost-perfect match for Marc's sister Shoshanna but that was a campaign for another time.) Teresa had met all of the aforementioned young gentlemen at one time or another, of course, but fancied none of them. She was too diplomatic to state this out loud—however, she demurred that while marriage and children were on her to-do list _someday_, she didn't feel she was ready for that sort of commitment.

Teresa O'Brian had a dream and a completely different career path in mind: since she was a little girl she'd wanted to become a doctor. Her father and Murdoch had never taken her seriously, especially considering the fuss she'd made about going to finishing school. Women doctors weren't unheard of but they were thin on the ground and mostly in the larger cities.

Teresa had a secret accomplice in this endeavor—their local general practitioner Samuel Jenkins had already assisted her in applying for admittance to the new Pennsylvania Female College, which would be opening its doors in December. With four years of college—three if she could manage an accelerated schedule—under her belt (Teresa didn't hold with corsets), she'd be eligible to apply to the Woman's Medical College of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia... which meant seven to eight years away from her beloved ranch.

Long before the Lancer brothers had taken up residence and almost immediately commenced getting themselves shot up, cut up and beat up with distressing regularity, Teresa O'Brian had begun ordering a succession of home medical guides and was fair on her way to becoming a competent practical nurse in addition to schoolmarm. This had been Doctor Sam's suggestion after she'd first broached the subject of becoming a medical professional.

Doctor Sam was spread pretty thin as the only physician in the area and it seemed like he was constantly on the road, hurrying from one house call to the next. Knowledge of modern first aid was non-existent and country folk too often put off sending for him until it became evident their home remedies weren't proving efficacious. Especially on a _ranchero_ this large with its almost two hundred residents, including women and children, it would be advantageous to have at least one responsible party on the premises familiar with first response applications... even better if that person was prepared to deal with moderate but potentially life-threatening emergencies until the doctor could get there.

Teresa was no faint-hearted weak-stomached flighty female, Doctor Jenkins knew—she was a solid rancher's daughter through and through. So, with her guardian's permission, he'd encouraged her to start teaching herself basic nursing and minor doctoring. He'd been mentoring her in this endeavor ever since. For almost a year these plans had been on hold... since her father's untimely death and Murdoch's injuries in the same ambush, because Murdoch was all alone and needed her. But now, with Scott and Johnny in the picture...


	8. Chapter 8

**• • • • • ****SUNDAY, APRIL 24 • • • • •**

_Chapter 8: _**A SHOCKING REVELATION**

**La Villa Cameron... **A shaft of morning sun was insinuating its way through a minute gap in the draperies when Murdoch opened his eyes, annoyed that he'd slept this late but feeling markedly refreshed. A peek at his pocket watch on the bedside table revealed that it was already half past six... at home he would have long been washed, dressed, broken fast and been outside overseeing or participating in some ranch chore.

Murdoch swung his legs out of bed, feeling the usual aches and twinges in his gimpy hip and leg, and opened the door to the adjacent bathroom. Indoor plumbing was still a fairly new concept at Lancer—not quite as far along as flush toilets and hot water on demand but getting there slowly. They at least now had two rooms devoted to hygienic activities—one on the main floor and one upstairs where the bedrooms were—with hand pumps bringing in cold water from the well but hot water still having to be carried in from the kitchen reservoir by bucket and poured into the tubs. And while pipes carried gray water from the tubs away to the outside, the basins concealed under the commode chairs still had to be emptied by hand.

The Cameron residence boasted all the modern amenities—Murdoch made a mental note to request a tour of house systems later... including the plumbing arrangements and the boiler that dispensed hot water from a designated tap. His shaving kit had been neatly laid out on the small sinktop so he took care of that business second. Then he went in search of his clothes, which had been unpacked and pressed by an unseen hand and hung in the cedar clothes press while he'd been at dinner last night.

Stepping out into the corridor, Murdoch followed his nose to the unoccupied dining room and from there to the kitchen, where he found the cook and a younger assistant engaged in breakfast preparations. Amanda—Mrs. Curtis, it turned out—smiled as he entered, as did the two small brown children, obviously brother and sister, and a young man seated at the kitchen table who immediately arose in deference.

"Good morning... I do hope I haven't kept anyone waiting," Murdoch said pleasantly.

"Not at all, Mister Lancer. Mrs. Cameron customarily enjoys breakfast in bed and Curtis is assisting Mister Cameron in his morning routine—somewhat of a lengthy process as you can imagine. If you would care to be seated in the dining room, I'll be serving your breakfast momentarily."

"If you don't mind, Mrs. Curtis," Murdoch gestured at the table, "I would just as soon eat in here, as I do at home." Without waiting for a response, he seated himself across from the children. The other woman immediately set out a plate and cutlery. Amanda brought an oversize china mug to the table and poured coffee.

"Call me 'Amanda'... please. Children... this is Mister Lancer, a very old friend of Mister Cameron's come to visit. Mister Lancer... as you may have already surmised, this is my son Charles Cicero Curtis, Jr.—he goes by Chuck, his wife Ernestine and their twins Paolo and Petra."

"Very pleased to meet all of you." Murdoch nodded in approval, a firm believer in keeping his workers' families together by providing, when possible, employment for all.

Breakfast was served family-style as well, Amanda and Tina seating themselves after placing bowls and platters on the table. Although different from the spicier Mexican viands Maria Elena served at home, it was all hot and delicious and Murdoch consumed more than he usually did. At the conclusion, Chuck excused himself to take the children to school. Amanda suggested to Murdoch that he might wish to walk off the heavy meal, or—if he so desired—go for a short hack. It would be at least an hour or so before Mister Cameron presented himself.

"If you go through this door through the kitchen garden, you'll see the community stables shared by all five families on Huntington Circle... one of the boys there will show you which horses belong to the Camerons. I'd recommend Emperador... Chuck rides him now that Mister Cameron no longer can, but he requires a firm hand."

**Murdoch thanked her** for the fine meal and the advice and headed out the kitchen garden door. Emperador proved to be a magnificent grey stallion that the boy saddling him (with some difficulty) confirmed was a Puerto Rican Paso Fino from the Crown Montero Ranch... as spirited as Amanda promised but with the smoothest gaits of any horse Murdoch had ever ridden. He'd meant to be gone only an hour but was so enjoying the ride that a second hour passed without notice.

What on earth had the man been thinking... acquiring a hot-blooded horse, and a stallion to boot, just to ride around the city? Trey had never been a confident horseman and this one was far too much horse for a city boy. Emperador didn't belong in a suburban stable with limited pasturage—he should be on a ranch with acres to run his heart out and high-quality mares to cover. By the time they'd reached the bottom of the canyon road and turned around to go back up again, Murdoch had made up his mind to make Trey an offer.

Back at the stables, the rancher turned his mount over to one of the grooms and made his way back to the house through the kitchen garden to find that Trey had breakfasted in the meanwhile and was waiting for him in the greatroom along with Luisa. After a hasty wash up, Murdoch went to join them, and to learn... at last... the purpose of his presence.

**In the greatroom, **Trey and Luisa were seated at a plain rectangular golden oak table that had been specially constructed a few inches higher than standard to allow for the arms of the wheelchair to fit underneath. A forbidding-looking blue legal folder was at Trey's right elbow. Luisa Regina had brought in a bit of tatting to occupy her hands. Murdoch slid into the third chair while right behind him Tina glided in with a silver coffee service on a tray. Luisa dismissed the young woman, stating she would serve. Tina gave a slight bow and retreated to the corridor, gently closing the double doors behind her.

Murdoch exchanged greetings with his friends, but as neither looked particularly jocular this morning, he glanced at the legal documents.

"Should I be nervous?" he asked gently.

Trey shrugged. "I have no idea how you're going to react, Murdo, to the story I'm about to tell you. But I'm pretty sure that at least some of the time you're not going to be happy about it... or with me or with my lady wife. Before I say anything, though, let me offer the excuse that attorney-client confidentiality is the only thing that's prevented me from telling you what you've had a right to know for almost twenty years."

"And that confidentiality no longer applies because...?"

"Because the client is deceased and one of the codicils of the last will and testament is full disclosure of the truth to you—Murdoch Alexander Lancer."

"The client being... ?"

"Let's start at the beginning... I want you to think back nineteen years, Murdo... where you were and what you were doing the summer of 1851..."

"That's a tall order, Trey... a lot's happened since then..."

"Let me give some clues, then... it'd been a year since Maria disappeared with your two-year-old son. You'd just returned from Boston and a futile attempt to regain custody of your other son, on his fifth birthday. You were despondent, ready to give up on everything..."

"I went to Sacramento to drown my sorrows. You and Paul made me sober up and face up to my responsibilities as I tried to put my life back together again..." Murdoch continued thoughtfully. "I stayed with you and Luisa for a while... at the same time Luisa's cousin Pilar was a house guest. Is that what this is all about, Trey?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I haven't thought of her in years... haven't wanted to. After she left, I determined to put her and everything else behind me... the ranch became my whole world again and stayed that way until..."

"A year ago... when your troubles prompted you to reach out to Scott and John..." Trey said.

"But why would Pilar... I mean, I never heard from her again... I'm afraid I don't recall all the details..."

"That's because Pilar wasn't entirely truthful about details," Luisa interjected with a deep sigh. "She in fact lied about a great many things. I'm about to divulge a family secret here, Murdo... although I suspect that skeleton fell out of the closet a long time ago!

Our common grandfather was Cuban creole—Alonzo del Marín, Marqués de la Bahía Azul. The del Maríns originated in the Galicia region of Spain. They were fair-haired and light-skinned. The older son, Julián, was my father. The younger son, my uncle Joaquin, hadn't yet married. Then there was my aunt Claudia Rosalba... very much younger than the boys—blonde and green-eyed and the real beauty in the family. But headstrong and ungovernable.

Claudia got herself pregnant by a _cimarróne_—a half-African half-Taíno boy who worked in the gardens of the estate. Grandfather had the young man beheaded and packed Claudia off to a convent in Puerto Rico, where she died in childbirth. It was given out that the baby girl, named Pilar, was Joaquin's natural child by his Taíno mistress, and she was raised by the del Maríns as a daughter of the house. Fortunately Pilar had very light skin and her beauty exceeded even her mother's, which is very often the case with children of ethnic diversity. In time they arranged an advantageous match with a rich older planter who either didn't know or didn't care that Pilar was _quadroon_. That was the first marriage—the one she concealed from you—from which she'd run away. We couldn't tell you because she came to us so that Trey could handle the divorce."

"The _first_ marriage..." Murdoch repeated thoughtfully. "So she did marry again... after she left me... as she said she would?"

"Oh yes... that was the plan all along, evidently."

"When did she die?"

"Six months ago."

Trey cleared this throat. "I imagine you're wondering what Pilar might have bequeathed to you in her will... and the answer is, nothing. You are not specifically mentioned at all..."

"Then why...?"

"What Pilar didn't know when she left you was that she was with child." The sentence lay on the table between them like an unexploded bombshell as the rancher stared at the lawyer in utter bewilderment.

**"****You mean... **she was already pregnant when I... when we...?"

"No, Murdo... she got that way _while_ you were together... right in the middle of those twelve weeks."

"But... that's impossible..." Murdoch sputtered. "How...?"

Luisa spoke up primly. "I'm reasonably sure, Murdoch, you're aware of _how_ babies happen."

Murdoch blushed furiously. "Of course I understand... but... shouldn't she... why didn't she tell me?"

"Of course she _should_ have told you... and _might_ have, had she known... but she didn't realize it until another month had passed. The divorce was about to be finalized. Her fiance—if you want to call him that—was already waiting in the wings..." Luisa sniffed disdainfully. "She felt that bringing you back into her life would muddy the waters unnecessarily and delay her plans."

Murdoch looked from one to the other. "So you've known this all along...?" He got up and strode angrily to the picture windows, looking out at white sails tacking the white-capped harbor far below.

"We wanted to tell you, believe me, Murdo..." Trey called after him. "But couldn't... she forebade us. I was the one handling her divorce and have been the family's attorney of record ever since... until James took over. But even then I still couldn't divulge what I knew. I had hoped you'd understand that. I couldn't betray confidentiality any more than if I were her priest."

Minutes passed during which Murdoch kept his back to the couple at the table. A few times Trey opened his mouth to say something and Luisa caught his eye, nodding negatively. He understood without being told what she was attempting to convey to him—that the reality of having fathered a third son was still puddling on the surface, refusing to soak into Murdoch Lancer's thick head. And he didn't even know, as yet, that it _was_ a son. That would probably be his first question once he accepted the fact of a child... _if_ he accepted it.

**When Murdoch had collected himself** he returned to the table, folding his hands and focusing on something across the room, not looking at either one of them. "Boy or girl?"

"Boy," Trey answered.

"How can I be sure it's mine?" Murdoch asked bluntly. "Are _you_ sure?"

"Ninety-five percent sure, yes," Trey stated.

"_He, _Murdo... not _it_," Luisa corrected. "And I'm one hundred percent sure! Pilar and I discussed it. She was with no other man during the... ah... crucial period. The baby was healthy and full-term, born nine months to the day from the end of your fourth week together. Think about it, Murdoch... were either of you out of the other's sight during all that time?"

Murdoch shook his head. "No. No, we weren't. There were no opportunities for her to... be with someone else. But... what proof...?"

Trey cleared his throat. "At the risk of giving offense, Murdo... and with all due respect... what proof do you have that John is actually _your_ son? Aside from Maria's _claiming_ he was... does he look like you at all?"

Luisa tutted. "Trey Cameron... what an awful thing to say!"

Murdoch reddened but couldn't deny the elephant in the room. Everyone knew he'd met the girl in a bordertown _cantina_ where she danced for a living... and most likely augmented her income with other services.

"I take your point," Murdoch replied stiffly. "So... this boy... he'd be... what?... eighteen now?"

"Nineteen on April first."

"What's his name?"

"He goes by 'Jody'—Jordáno Miguel Montero y Marín. But in the parish records he's recorded as 'Jordan Marin Lancer'. Lulu and I are his godparents."

"May I ask what happened to Pilar?"

"She succumbed to puerperal fever three days after giving birth to a stillborn baby. We were given to understand she had a heart condition as well," Luisa responded in such a fashion that radiated her disbelief. Murdoch made a mental note to question this later.

"I see." Another long minute of silence stretched interminably.

"The name Montero seems familiar..."

"It should. You know Don Eduardo Montero, I believe?"

Murdoch gave Trey a startled look. "Ed Montero? Crown Montero Stud? Chula Vista?"

"That's the one."

"Sure, I know Montero... bought some horses from him four years ago. We went on a tear down in Tijuana... that's when I got the tip on Johnny's whereabouts. Can't say I care much for the man but I do know him... she married _him?_"

"Yup."

"And he adopted Pilar's... our... son?"

"Well, not officially, but the boy's always gone by his name. There are three other children... daughters."

Murdoch took a few minutes to contemplate this. In the meantime, Luisa and Trey both were on tenterhooks—would he or wouldn't he acknowledge paternity?

"Does the boy know he's not Montero's biological son? Does he know about... _me?_"

**"****He knows about you ****_now_****,"** Luisa said, making a long face. "He's always known Ed wasn't his real father, but Pilar never revealed who was... until she knew she was dying. She didn't want to face her Maker with the sin of omission on her conscience."

"How did he take it?"

"We're not really sure," Trey ventured uneasily. "He's not much on sharing his thoughts."

_A personality trait he shares with Johnny—never let them see you sweat..._

"Does Montero know I'm the boy's father?"

"He claims she'd never told him, either. But of course he also knows _now_."

Murdoch turned unexpectedly harsh. "Why would someone like Eduardo Montero want to marry a woman carrying another man's bastard?"

Trey shrugged. "It was a shipboard romance that got out of hand... he was obsessed with her—as you were. I'll get to that in a minute..."

Luisa jumped in with a dry chuckle. "Exactly as Trey and I met... except we were both returning from our European 'Grand Tours', not running from unhappy marriages! Pilar and I had kept up regular correspondence after we'd both married and Trey brought me to California. I sympathized with her plight and agreed to help her escape. Trey agreed to serve as her attorney. She knew ahead of time that it would take a year to establish residency in order to file for divorce. Also that it might prove impossible to obtain an annulment from the Church.

What we did _not_ know after she arrived... what she so carefully concealed from us... was the existence of this man whom she'd met on the boat from Havana to Colón. He'd been in Puerto Rico buying paso finos... had a dozen in the hold. He was bringing them across the isthmus by rail to Panamá, then up the coast by steamer to San Diego. Evidently they schemed that while she cooled her heels with us he would remain below the horizon in Chula Vista until the formalities were concluded and he could come collect her. Let me reiterate, Murdoch, that Trey and I were completely in the dark about this man."

Trey took up the tale. "She'd been with us several months when you came along. The proceedings were taking longer than I'd anticipated. As the two of you were both in need of _divertissement_, we saw no harm in encouraging you to spend time together..."

"Please believe us, Murdoch," Luisa entreated, "We had absolutely no idea you'd turn so serious so quickly... or that Pilar was simply indulging in a fling to pass the time. She certainly wasn't expecting the complication of pregnancy."

"Neither was I," Murdoch said. "So what happened then?"

"If you recall," Trey said, "we relocated to San Francisco during the two months she stayed with you on your ranch. We didn't hear from you for a long time afterwards and assumed you were blaming us for the fiasco, so you didn't know we'd arranged a place for her live—not with us—until the baby came. During that time Ed was away for six months on a business trip to South America. They wrote to each other but she kept the pregnancy secret, intending to give the baby up for adoption and never telling him about it. Then she changed her mind. The baby and the divorce decree arrived at the same time, and Montero a month later. He was furious, of course... but he wanted her badly enough to agree to keeping the child, so they married."

"He reasoned that if she'd had one boy she'd soon enough produce another for him. He was desperate for an heir," Luisa cut in. "But then they had the three girls and miscarriages after that, one after another until the one that killed her."

"Wasn't she a little old for... er... having babies?"

"Forty-three... and yes, she shouldn't have. Ed Montero was advised by the family physician not to endanger her health and life that way... but... he wouldn't listen. You know... a husband's rights and all that..."

Luisa gave her husband the evil eye before pouring another round of coffees. The three busied themselves with cream and sugar for another few minutes.

"If you were in my position, Trey, what would you do?"

"Well, I suppose I'd want to meet the boy."

"But does he want to meet me... us?" Murdoch asked, then without waiting for Trey to comment, "Can you bring him here?"

Luisa and Trey both breathed silent breaths of relief. It seemed their old friend was preparing himself to accept fatherhood of this as yet unknown child.

"Well, Murdo... unfortunately, there's a small problem with that..."

Luisa cut in briskly. "Murdoch, Trey needs to rest for a bit. Can we continue this discussion this afternoon... after lunch?"

"By all means, Luisa. I could use some private time to think this through."

"Very well. Lunch will be served at two... on the patio, weather permitting."

"I'll be there."


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9: _**LOST, STOLEN OR STRAYED**

**Villa Cameron... **Trey was suffering an arthritic flareup, according to an apologetic Luisa over lunch out on the patio. He'd have slept off a substantial dose of laudanum by dinnertime though, and possibly they could reconvene afterwards. She hoped Murdoch would understand and find some way to entertain himself until then, as she wished to remain close to her husband.

Murdoch followed her advice and took the grey stallion out again for the afternoon, exploring the high bluffs and canyons of the surrounding countryside. Met a few of the neighbors also out enjoying the mild weather on horseback. They led him along the tortuous hidden trail that wound down the bluff to a narrow ribbon of beach. They all had a fine time splashing through the wavelets. Murdoch hadn't ridden a horse along a saltwater beach since his boyhood in Scotland and constantly had to fight Emperador to keep him out of the deeper water. He was certainly wetter than he'd expected to be by the time they all returned to the stable.

By dinnertime Murdoch wasn't feeling all that well himself and worried that he might be coming down with a cold. His bad hip was aching and he had to resort to his cane, which hadn't seen much use in recent months. He was glad he'd thought to pack it along.

Trey seemed mostly recovered by the time they'd finished their meal and repaired to the great room where the legal folder still decorated the table. After Amanda had brought in the coffee service and poured, they returned to the earlier discussion.

"You said there was a problem... what did you mean by that?" Murdoch jumped in without preamble.

Trey fiddled with the folder, pushing it away then realigning it meticulously. "Jody disappeared the day of Pilar's funeral... we haven't been able to locate him since..."

"A boy running away isn't exactly news, Trey," Murdoch interrupted. "And why involve me _now_... after all this time... if you don't even know where he is? He could be dead in a ditch somewhere, so what's the point of bringing me all the way to Los Angeles to tell me about a child I never knew I had and now probably won't ever meet?"

"Whoa!" Trey held up a placatory hand. "Jody's very much alive... that _is_ the point _and_ the problem... there're other reasons—aside from Pilar's wishes—why we decided it was necessary to bring you into the picture _now_... before something else happens..."

"Before _what else_ happens? Didn't you just tell me he disappeared?"

"I did, he did... maybe I should have phrased that differently—he took off on an expedition... an odyssey of sorts.. The Pinkertons have been tracking him for the past five months. We now know where he's _been_... and can make educated guesses about his general whereabouts. We just haven't pinpointed his _exact_ location... yet."

"And why is that so important? Nineteen is old enough to be out on his own. I was. You were."

"Yeah... but we weren't in his kind of trouble."

"What kind of trouble is that?"

"You want the quick and dirty version or the whole sorry story, chapter and verse?"

"The quick one, if you please..."

"There's a fistful of paper out on him... assault and battery with intent to commit bodily harm, attempted murder, horse theft, perjury, forgery, fraud, flight to avoid prosecution..."

"Oh... is _that_ all? Murdoch's tone dripped sarcasm. "Look, I don't need this... I've already got my hands full dealing with one son who's lived outside the law all his life—what have I done to deserve this?" he implored.

"You didn't, Murdoch. None of this is your fault... but the situation is what it is and will only get worse unless he's stopped. The boy's in too far to get out by himself..."

"Maybe you'd better tell me _all_ of it... not just the highlights," the rancher groaned.

"I hardly know where to begin..."

Murdoch grinned. "Well, according to Aristotle, first you introduce the characters and the status quo—which I'm assuming you've now done—and then you introduce the catalyst—which I'm assuming you're about to do..."

Luisa quickly intervened. "Your humor is misplaced. This is a convoluted and potentially disastrous situation that could... I say _could_, not _will_... have a direct impact on _you_ and your family... unless we find Jody first."

That stopped the big man cold, immediately contrite. "I apologize to you both... I'm just... the idea of a threat to my family is unsettling, to say the least..."

**Trey resumed.** "As I was about to say... we'd received word that Pilar was failing fast, that Luisa needed to come right away. She was pregnant, remember, but the doctor in attendance told Luisa the fetus wasn't viable and had probably been dead for some time... that if Pilar'd been healthier she would've aborted spontaneously and might have survived. Anyway, Luisa was with her when she died a few hours after we arrived. This was on a Friday.

Jody'd been in with his mother behind closed doors that morning. We're assuming she made a deathbed confession of some sort that triggered an ugly scene between Ed and Jody shortly before we got there.

The boy approached us privately later that evening, after he'd calmed down, wanting confirmation of what he'd been told. We told him about you and the ranch and his brothers—everything we knew of their backgrounds. He understood that they didn't grow up on the ranch and had been with you less than a year. He didn't say anything about meeting you right then but I'm positive he's expecting that to happen in the future.

We didn't see him at all on Saturday. I was busy with Ed, making legal arrangements and such, while Luisa and the older women of the _estancia_ were preparing the bodies. Jody showed up for the requiem mass on Sunday. His sister Martha—the eldest girl—told us later that she'd never seen him in such a state... that he vowed to avenge his mother. What he meant by that wasn't entirely clear... or whether that was directed at his stepfather or his biological father. Who knows what Pilar might have told him?"

What Murdoch was thinking was how Maria had lied to _their_ son, leading Johnny to believe they'd been thrown out, cast aside... so that even twenty years later Johnny Madrid harbored such hate that he wanted his father dead. Might not Pilar have lied just like Maria? Was it possible that history was repeating itself? He became aware that Luisa was speaking sharply to her husband.

"Oh... so now you're insinuating that Pilar might've told the boy some fantastic story about having been taken advantage of and then discarded like last week's newspaper?"

"Simmer down, Lulu! I didn't mean it that way..."

"Well, it certainly sounds like it!"

Trey rolled his eyes and continued. "Later that afternoon, after the graveside service, Jody and Ed had another altercation out by the stables. I was there, with at least four other witnesses. We didn't see who started the fight but we all heard Jody swear he'd kill him. He went after Ed with a knife and Ed used a leaded quirt to defend himself. Ed was cut up some but the kid got the worst of it. Sometime that evening Jody went missing and wasn't present for the reading of the will the next day. With that business concluded, Luisa and I returned home."

Murdoch barely stifled a chuckle. "Ah well... it's certainly not unusual for a boy to run off like that... especially under those conditions. Johnny _still_ does that when we have a major disagreement!"

"I hear what you're saying, Murdo... even James ran away from home a few times... it's pretty much standard behavior for a teenage boy... but this is far more serious. Ed swore out a complaint, so an arrest warrant went out. Jody wasn't anywhere to be found. A few weeks later—when Ed determined the sheriff wasn't pursuing the matter aggressively enough, he traveled to Los Angeles to engage the Pinkertons—they don't have an office in San Diego or Chula Vista.

According to my sources, Ed was a nervous wreck... he'd been looking over his shoulder ever since that day, expecting his stepson to pop out of the woodwork and gun him down or something..."

"Is the boy proficient with firearms?" Murdoch asked lightly, trying to ignore the cold knot of dread in his belly.

"He's a fair shot but he's better with a knife, so we're told."

"Have the Pinkertons been able to get a lead on him?"

"Yes... and no. He left a paper trail a blind man could follow. Within that first week he came here—to Los Angeles. He forged my signature on a petition for emancipation of a minor, which some idiot judge granted without my presence in the courtroom. This gave him all the rights of an adult and access to the trust fund his mother had set up for him..."

"Wait a minute..." Murdoch interrupted. "Where would she have got money enough for a trust fund that's worth anything? Didn't you just tell me Ed controlled her life?"

"When she left Cuba she absconded with a young fortune in jewelry she'd got from her then husband. Luisa talked her into liquidating most of it and banking the proceeds... and convinced her it'd be a bad idea to let Ed know about it. Later, when things got bad with Ed, Pilar couldn't get at it without Ed finding out it was there. We think maybe she was beginning to understand what the future held and what she needed to do for Jody's sake."

"Even then... in the beginning, she had reservations about Montero?" Murdoch asked.

Luisa sniffed. "Any woman who trusts any man one hundred percent is a fool!"

Trey looked wounded. "Even me, my beloved... after all this time?"

"Even you, my darling!"

"That's why I love this woman, Murdoch... she would never lie to me! So... back to Jody. From here he went to San Francisco where he opened two accounts with the Bank of California and obtained a letter of credit for each—one under the name of Jordan Lancer and the other as Jordáno Montero. This gave him the wherewithal to travel and he could withdraw funds whenever he needed to, using those letters of credit.

At the Pinkerton's suggestion, I—well, my law firm—tried to get holds put on those accounts but the best we could do were court injunctions instructing the banks to notify us whenever and wherever a withdrawal's made. That's provided us with an accounting as good as a road map of his travels... all the way from San Francisco to Boston and from there down to Cuba and on to Texas. From Matamoros to Los Angeles, up to San Francisco again. The information's right here... except for a two-week period between Matamoros and Los Angeles during which he returned to Crown Montero."

Trey reached over to tap the ominous blue folder. "Copies of tickets and passenger manifests. Signed statements by people who remember seeing or speaking with him. It appears he's not overly concerned about covering his tracks, but in any event he's moving too fast for anyone to catch up. Has been, anyway. That has now changed."

Both men paused to silently consider the wonders of modern transportation, of being able to travel great distances in mere days or weeks which only twenty years ago might have taken a year or better to achieve. And the significance of these particular ports of call on Jody's odyssey was all too obvious...

"He's looking to find out who we are, isn't he?" Murdoch commented quietly.

"It would seem that way. No doubt he's intensely curious about you and your family."

"Scott's family in Boston... the Garretts..."

"And isn't Matamoros where you met Johnny's mother? What on earth were you doing down there, anyway?"

"Friend of mine down there wrote, said he was having some luck breeding palomino Quarterhorses... had some stud colts he wanted me to look at..."

"Anything worth while?"

"Bought three yearlings off him and..."

"Gentlemen!" Luisa Regina cut in reprovingly. "Let's get back to Matamoros, shall we?"

"Oh... yes... right. Well... Dick King and I went out drinking a couple of nights, ended up across the river... but how would Jody have known where to look?"

"Indirectly my fault, I'm afraid," Trey sighed. "When I moved to my current firm, I brought all my old case files with me... including those dating back to our attempt to get custody of Scott. In addition—although you didn't hear this from me because it's borderline unethical—I have copies of all the Pinkerton files relating to the search for John. As Montero's current attorney of record, James is copied on everything the Pinkertons have unearthed on Jody. Jody forged a pass from me to be allowed into the archives at the firm on a day James wasn't there. Those files include my private notations up through your reunion with your sons. He has all the names, addresses and relationships. And he's nothing if not resourceful. I'm sure there were plenty of folks down in Matamoros eager to talk to him about Johnny Madrid. The Pinkertons on the new case have confirmed that he met and stayed with his Cuban relations but didn't contact anyone in Boston or Texas. You do see what's missing here, don't you?"

"Yeah... he hasn't got around to Lancer yet."

"_Yet_ being the operative word. We... that is, Luisa, myself and James—and the Pinks... we think he might be stalking you..."

**"****Say again?"**

"Perhaps 'stalking' isn't the best description. Ray Lemieux—he's Los Angeles director of operations—is reasonably certain Jody's working his way up to approaching you and your sons... your _other_ sons... probably in some oblique manner rather than directly. He believes Jody will turn up on your ranch unexpectedly, though you may not know it right away or even for some time. He may already be there under an assumed name. That's his way of dealing with anything that interests him... he studies it from afar for a while before deciding what to do next. Ray would like to station an undercover agent at Lancer, with your permission of course."

"Well," Murdoch said. "I don't know what to say other than yes, he'll have my permission. I'll have to let Scott and Johnny know what's going on, though. We rarely have other white men working on the ranch, so he'd stand out. The agent, I mean..."

"I'll arrange a meeting for you with Ray. He'll probably be able to scrape up a Mexican agent. I imagine he'll also advise holding off on informing Scott and Johnny—they might inadvertently give the game away and scare Jody off."

Murdoch pointed out a problem with that. Even though they'd successfully fought off land pirates the previous year, they'd continued to have clashes with thieves, rustlers and other lowlifes intent on disruption. "My sons are vigilant about strange activities on our property. They're apt to shoot first and ask questions later if they run up against anyone acting suspiciously."

"I can't think of any reason Jody might harbor ill intent toward you and yours... I believe he's just on a reconnaisance mission to get the lay of the land, so to speak, before revealing himself. But... we can't discount the possibility he might have something else in mind because..."

Murdoch gave his head a ponderous shake. "No... we can't. You wouldn't know this, Trey, but when the boys first came to me last year, both arrived with hostile attitudes. Scott was raised to believe I'd abandoned him and Johnny was under the impression I'd thrown both him and his mother off the ranch, even though Teresa tried to tell him the truth..."

"But didn't you explain the real situation... what happened in both instances?"

"Of course I did, but it was my word against what they'd heard all their lives. Johnny admitted he'd always hated me and had been plotting for years towards the day he could put a bullet in my brain... and I'm the one who handed him that opportunity when I sent for him."

Trey was aghast. "Surely they understand now...?"

"To be perfectly honest, I still can't be one hundred percent sure they do," Murdoch said sadly. "Scott's the more logical of the two and appears to have accepted my version. Johnny, now... he had such a bad time of it growing up he may never come to acceptance... and I know there has to be a well of resentment toward his brother. In many ways Johnny is more sensitive and thin-skinned than Scott. He's acutely aware of his social shortcomings in comparison—his self-esteem is fragile to begin with and he has a very tenuous hold on it as it is. I'm afraid that having another brother brought in... also raised with all the advantages of wealth and privilege... is going to make him feel even more inadequate."

"But his reputation... even _I've_ heard of it..."

"Veneer... a shell... the only armor he's got to protect his place in the world..."

"Are you saying it isn't justified?" Trey was confused.

Murdoch shook his head slowly. "As a father, I wish I could claim that... but it's all too real. He doesn't talk about it much... not consciously, anyway..."

"Nightmares?"

"Yes... that and in the delirium of fever... he's far from comfortable in his new skin—John Lancer, rancher. He wants to banish Johnny Madrid but at the same time he's afraid to let go completely... in case things don't work out with Lancer... with _me._ He thinks I don't know these things, sense his depression... but I felt it the first time he walked into the room. I'm afraid I handled it very badly and we got off on the wrong foot..."

"I'm sure time will resolve these issues, Murdo."

"You're probably right," Murdoch agreed, snapping back to the subject. "Has the boy... has Jody withdrawn a lot of money? If he's flashing around big rolls he's likely in danger..."

"Oh no... he's too smart for that... he withdraws only fifty to a hundred dollars at a time, not often and never twice at the same bank—except when he needs a large amount for a long trip."

"Where was the last bank he visited?"

"Merced... a week ago, Stockton two weeks before that. He's moving in your direction."

Murdoch swore... then sneezed mightily. "Pardon me. What happens when and if we find the boy? Simply hand him over to the authorities, he goes to prison and that's that? I want no part of it, you hear me?"

"Now Murdoch... calm down. It won't go that far... James and I are sure of that..."

"With all those charges hanging over his head? I don't see how..."

"Murdoch!" Luisa vehemence startled both of them. "What you've just heard is only the beginning of the story. What you _need_ to hear... what you are _going_ to hear, is the _why_ all this came about in the first place..."


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10: _**BAD NEWS**

**Villa Cameron, late night... **"It occurs to me you haven't mentioned one word about where Montero stands in all this..." Murdoch interrupted.

"Ed's not standing anywhere... he's in a pushchair, like me," Trey said. "He swears Jody put him there..."

_"__WHAT?_ How?"

"That's what the authorities want to question Jody about. Ed was attacked—single gunshot wound to the chest from the front... and a single stab wound from behind. Either one could've been immediately fatal but weren't. He wasn't expected to survive, but rallied and pulled through. Claims Jody's responsible."

"Pretty good trick for one attacker."

"Yes, Murdo... the authorities considered _that_ right off..."

"When did this happen?"

"Eight weeks ago... remember I mentioned Jody having turned up at Crown Montero on his way back? There was another incident... and this time some serious blood was spilled.""

"Will Ed recover?"

"Doubtful. He was in a coma for a week, then suffered a mild stroke. He's paralyzed on the left side and unable to care for himself. He's having difficulty eating and his speech is slurred, but his mind is still intact. He's been throwing orders around and making life unbearable for everyone around him, especially his around-the-clock nurses. Fortunately, James has been able to counteract most of the trouble... but there are some things he couldn't prevent, like Ed firing the Pinkertons and hiring bounty hunters to go after Jody."

"Why are the Pinkertons still on the case, then?"

Trey grinned. "Well, that particular order worked to our advantage... as soon as he fired 'em, I was free to rehire them. Since I'm retired and not considered actively involved with his legal affairs, there's no conflict of interest!"

"Christ on a sidesaddle!" Murdoch swore. "Could this get any worse? Wait... don't answer that. What does _Ed_ say happened?"

"It was weeks before Ed was able to give a statement," Trey said. "He said he was in the hallway and heard a man's voice in Martha's bedroom—she's the oldest girl. He broke through the door and found Jody standing just inside the terrace door with a gun in his hand. Knowing his stepson was crazy and fearing for Martha's safety, he pushed her out of harm's way, which is when Jody shot him—tried to kill him... just as he'd promised the day of Pilar's funeral. When Ed fell, Jody stabbed him in the back—an intended _coup de grace_. He claims that's all he remembers."

"So this girl, Martha... she's the only witness?"

Luisa snorted and Trey just shook his head.

"The noise brought resident staff on the run a few minutes later. Ed was on the floor, unconscious, with the knife embedded in his back. Jody was still in the room, on his feet and covered in blood. They all agree they heard _two_ gunshots, but only one gun was recovered at the scene and it had been fired once. Martha affirms that was the gun Ed brought into the room... he swears it isn't."

"I assume the sheriff took the girl's deposition?"

"This is where it gets hairy," Trey said. "Martha's story is that Jody came in through the terrace doors to her room. They were just talking and _Ed_ was the one with the gun. He kicked in the door, struck her and knocked her aside, then shot Jody point-blank. It happened so quickly she couldn't tell where Jody was hit but he went down. He'd just given her the knife for self-protection so she already had it in her hand. She used it to stab Ed in the back. He fell to the floor and dropped the gun. She picked it up. When Ed got up and turned to her, she shot him with it. She _says_ Jody didn't have a gun.

By then the servants arrived from their rooms on the third floor. Someone was sent to fetch the sheriff and a doctor. Jody disappeared. Martha waited with the two little girls in the library downstairs until they got there... and then she confessed."

Murdoch's face had blanched at the mention of Jody's being shot. He raised a hand to interrupt. "How badly was the boy... Jody... is there a possibility he _wasn't_ hit? Where's he been in the past eight weeks?"

Trey shook his head negatively. "Sorry, Murdo... it's fairly evident he was. When you read the sheriff's report, you'll see where he remarks blood spatter on the terrace door curtains and a blood trail beginning just inside the doors and leading out to the edge of the terrace. There were bloody footprints on the floor between the doors and where Ed lay.

However, we can assume he wasn't too badly injured as he's currently at large somewhere in the San Joaquin Valley. No doubt he had assistance in effecting an escape once he'd got away from the house, and someone had to've looked after him while he recuperated, and helped him return to San Francisco once he was well enough to travel."

"Do you believe either of those accounts, Trey?" Murdoch asked.

"Of course not," Trey replied with scorn. "Both those stories have got more holes in them than an aged Swiss cheese but neither storyteller is deviating. No one outside the three of them knows for sure _who_ brought the gun to the party but the knife was definitely Jody's... has his initials carved in the hilt. At this point we have no way of proving... or disproving... who fired first. If we can prove Ed did, we can counterclaim in court—should it get that far—that Jody acted in self-defense. Luisa, have you anything you want to add here?"

**Luisa emitted a noise** somewhere between a snort and a giggle. The two men looked at her.

"Sorry! Sorry! I know... there's nothing laughable about this... but really, you must admit... there _is_ some amusement to be had when people are queueing up to take credit for trying to remove from the world such a universally-despised creature as Ed Montero. The district marshal is tearing his hair out—he can't arrest everyone who's confessed... or who had motive... the whole county would be behind bars!"

"What do you mean, Luisa? _What_ other confessions?"

Trey took over, trying and failing to look solemn. "At least a dozen other members of the household have come forward stating _they_ were the ones who shot and/or stabbed Montero. The local sheriff _and_ the marshal refused to arrest Martha although she was taken into protective custody. All other claimants were dismissed. Pacifico Puentes, the _majo domo,_ is about a hundred years old and deaf as a post. The _ama de casa_, Dolores Marquez, isn't much bigger than Martha and she's a seventy-year-old near-sighted asthmatic. Alberto Dominguez, _director estable_, is middle-aged and certainly strong enough... but after _he_ confessed several others reminded him he'd been in the stables all evening with a sick horse."

"You know, anyone can pull a trigger," Murdoch mused, "but it takes a certain skill, strength and knowledge of anatomy to shove a knife into just the right slot that'll put a man down... especially a big, burly man like Montero... _could_ Martha have done it?"

"With pure luck," Trey admitted, "or if she was scared enough... but unlikely. Martha's five-foot-nothing and probably weighs ninety pounds soaking wet."

"So Jody could've used either weapon... or both?"

"Indisputably. Jody's fiercely protective of his sisters..."

"But why would they—the girls—be frightened of their own father? Did he beat them or... er, you know... _molest_ them?"

"I'm not saying they were... or that he did... just that if Jody observed Ed hurting one of them, he wouldn't have just stood around with his finger up his nose... even injured, he would've tried to get between them or fight back. I guess what I'm trying to say is it's possible he did both the shooting _and_ the stabbing.

We're not arguing that point at all. What we hope to do is find him first and get him to turn himself in. He'll have to go before a judge, of course. James is sure... _I'm_ sure... that any judge worth his salt will refuse to indict due to extenuating circumstances once he's apprised of Jody's background and what led to this unfortunate event. James believes the case won't even go to trial."

"No prison time, then?"

"Not as such, no."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a sticking point to be considered _if_ Jody confesses... and that's whether or not he was in his right mind at the time. If it's adjudged he wasn't, there's a slight possibility he might be remanded to an institution for the criminally insane."

At this Murdoch's mouth fell open and he was at a loss for words for a few moments.

**"****Are you saying my son's... crazy?"**

"Nothing of the sort!" Luisa exclaimed. "And if you knew him as I do you would know that."

"And whose fault is it that I don't?" the big rancher shot back. "If you would be so kind as to explain..."

Trey intervened. "Let me ask you this, Murdo... is there in your immediate family a history of... um... feyness? Someone who was on occasion not of this world—what my own sainted grandmother would have described as being 'away with the faeries'? As a fellow Scotsmen I'm sure you know what that means in the Old Country..."

For the second time, Murdoch was brought up short. He knew exactly what Trey was talking about and indeed there _was_ such a history... something he'd never spoken of since arriving in America—his own granny Hag Rhona and his mother's younger sister known as Crazy Mòrag... both reputed to have 'the Eye'—and not benign ones either. Too, there was an odd uncle rumored to have had a sixth sense, a certain 'way' with wild things. While Murdoch himself didn't for a moment believe in such nonsense as witches and other beings with paranormal abilities he couldn't entirely discount the stories...

Trey continued. "Jody's second biggest obstacle is his own intelligence... he's extraordinarily bright."

Murdoch frowned. "Even the smartest people can be crazy. I've heard genius goes hand in hand with madness."

**Luisa had been studying** the play of emotions on their friend's face. "I believe it's time to shine some light on Jody's history, _why_ the boy is the way he is..."

"Please... yes. So far all I've heard is what he's done... what I want... _need_... to know is what he's like..."

More truthfully, Murdoch's mind was still roiling with the sudden possibility that whatever Luisa was about to reveal concerning this unknown son would provide insight into why _Johnny_ was the way _he_ was. The boy was still stingy with historical details of his childhood and adolescence. All the while Murdoch'd been blaming Johnny's sordid upbringing for his dramatic mood swings and occasional fits of depression. What if—after all—his sometimes inexplicable behavior wasn't a character deficiency but linked somehow to the mental quirks and flaws in the father's maternal line of descent? Murdoch'd often sensed a keen intellect lurking beneath Johnny's unlettered exterior, unable to find a way to express itself. Was it nurture... or was it nature... that governed these two young men who shared his blood?

"Even though I was very angry with Pilar over what she'd done to you, we _are_ kin and I had to forgive her. We were quite close, even after she married Ed and he took her to Chula Vista. At first we corresponded regularly and openly... but later we were forced to communicate in secret through a sympathetic third party."

"I presume you're going to explain why there was a need for that?"

"In the beginning Ed treated Pilar like a queen. As Trey said, he fully expected to get an heir of his own blood off her. He was disappointed when the next child was a girl... more so when the third was also a girl. By the time they'd been married six years and had only three girls to show for it, his desire had turned to brutality. He became an abusive tyrant, blaming her for not giving him a son.

By then he'd forbidden her all contact with anyone from her previous life... except for me. As Ed's attorney, Trey was constrained from disclosing anything about Ed's affairs... and by extension as Trey's wife, so was I. Ed knew that and felt safe... but he monitored all her incoming and outgoing mail anyway...

Jody was a difficult child from the time he could walk. He didn't speak until three and he didn't mind very well—we were afraid he was... well... simple. Ed dispensed discipline the only way he knew how... the same way he'd been raised. When Jody was around eight years old he started running away from home and would stay gone for days. Most of Ed's workers were either full-blood natives or _mestizo_, few whites. He treated them like serfs and they were all frightened of him. We believe they had empathy for this child—as if he were one of their own, so to speak—and that they conspired to hide him among themselves."

Murdoch felt the gorge rise as he anticipated what he'd be hearing next—Johnny's tales revisited, what little he'd spoken of beatings he'd suffered at the hands of his mother's succession of lowlife companions.

"The boy never returned home of his own volition," Luisa said. "Ed sent people to find him and drag him back, then Ed would beat him, once breaking his nose and another time his arm. Jody always claimed he couldn't remember where he'd been. Pilar never admitted it but we were positive he beat her as well."

"Couldn't you have helped her get away?" Murdoch asked. "Or called the law on him?"

Luisa answered. "Oh please! You know the law isn't going to step between a man and his wife... unless he beats her to death. You wouldn't believe the numbers of women who stay with abusive husbands because they're too frightened to leave! We offered to help but she was sure he'd find her and kill her, or hurt the children. They never attended public schools—they had tutors—but when Jody was ten, Ed sent him to boarding school at Saint Vincent's here in Los Angeles. Pilar didn't object because she felt he'd be safer here out of Ed's reach..."

Trey picked up the narrative. "At the time Luisa was terribly lonely, what with me being gone all day and our only child having flown the nest—Jimmy'd just left for university back east. I suggested perhaps Jody might board with us instead and attend Saint Vincent's as a day student. She talked Ed into it, emphasizing how much he'd be saving on room and board..."

At that moment Curtis knocked and entered the room. "Mister Cameron, sir... it's past your bedtime..."

Luisa glanced at the ormulu clock on the mantelpiece, exclaiming, "Good heavens! Is that the time?! You're absolutely right, Curtis..."

"There's still much to tell, Lu..." Trey protested.

Luisa shook her head. "Tomorrow will be soon enough. Murdoch, you appear to be coming down with something unpleasant. Doctor Addison will be here tomorrow to see Trey and he'll give you something to alleviate the symptoms, but for tonight a hot toddy will have to do. I don't want to hear any arguments."

The grimly determined Cubana with her gimlet eye was not a woman to mess with and Murdoch knew it. He capitulated as graciously as he could. Having snuffled and sneezed throughout the preceding conversation, he had to admit he was feeling somewhat worse for the wear and a hot toddy would be welcome. He didn't often come down with a head cold, but whenever he did...


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11: _**HIRING DAY**

**Morro Coyo, early morning... **At the south end of town by the hodgepodge of jerry-built stock pens used on market days, hiring for cowhands was in progress—presided over by Señors Scott Lancer and Cipriano Melendez.

On the north side, applicants were congregating at Señors Johnny Lancer's and Vicente Serrato's post near the livery stable's corral, where they would be interviewing prospective horse wranglers. Roughly half the men in this group had worked for Lancer Ranch before and were known to Vicente, who'd been detailed to help Johnny today. And as half of those had not been there for the fall roundup in which Johnny had participated, they weren't up to date on his position as a son of the house... or his previous career. The ones who knew him as both John Lancer _and_ Johnny Madrid were gleefully imparting that knowledge, along with the usual exaggerations. Several of the more faint-hearted melted away, deciding they weren't up to being anywhere in the near vicinity of a feared gunfighter much less working with him.

Before going off on his trip, Murdoch had outlined his hiring procedures: Previous employees in good standing—personally known to himself, Cipriano or Vicente—were first choices. Known troublemakers or other undesirables (the chronically inebriated, for instance) wouldn't be considered. New faces would be evaluated as to their knowledge or judged by letters of recommendation.

Though both were new to ranching and had performed well during fall roundup, neither Johnny nor Scott had been involved in hiring. Murdoch had carefully explained his ethnic preferences: Mexican, then black, whites last. Why? Because the first two were almost always local family men and dependable workers who welcomed the extra seasonal income. White men were in the main itinerant and not disposed to taking orders from colored men—in other words, Mexicans. The exceptions were sons of white farmers and merchants, whose families were known to the Lancers or their Mexican overseers.

**This time the Mexican bosses** would handle the initial sorting and then advise the sons of the house of their approval or reservation of the remaining men. It would then be up to Johnny and Scott to make final determinations. The Lancer brothers knew they were being tested as well... the men they chose would reflect on their own abilities as leaders.

As a former cavalry officer, Scott had supreme confidence in his ability to judge men but openly admitted that what he knew about cattle could be inscribed on the head of a pin—the beef he'd grown up with had come all neatly wrapped in butcher paper and tied with string. The only time he saw it was when a footman placed in front of him a plate with a steak on it, medium-rare. He'd be relying heavily on Cipriano's expertise to guide him. Scott's natural amiability and strict training in gentlemanly forebearance had quickly endeared him to the Mexican population on the ranch. When at first they'd snickered at his prissy Eastern ways and horrible mangling of their native tongue, he'd laughed at himself right along with them. _El hijo mayor_ was A-okay by them!

Johnny was more nervous than he was letting on. All his life he'd been a loner, had never had the responsibility for hiring or leading others... and he so desperately wanted to prove to his father and brother that he also was capable of exercising good judgment and handling responsibility. So he was trying to play it cool, not let his anxiety seep out where the other three could see it. He, too, would be depending on Vicente's guidance although he'd never admit it. He'd made some colossal mistakes in the past nine months and had a lot to make up for besides his general scholarly ignorance and lack of management skills. Unfortunately, Johnny's 'cool' face was also his steely unblinking gunfighter's gaze that froze bone marrow and caused many of the would-be new hires to rethink their desires to work at Lancer Ranch.

Much concerned muttering was going on among the two groups at either end of town because the _patrón_ himself was nowhere to be seen, which was most unusual and completely out of character to those who had worked for him previously. Although Señor O'Brian and Señor Cipriano had in previous years worked as a team in ranchhand selection, Señor Murdoch liked to be around to greet each one personally. And oddly enough for a white man, he always managed to remember every single new employee's name!

Among those not in the the know whispered rumors were circulating... that the man in charge of horsecatchers and handlers this year—the one who had to be impressed—was that halfbreed Mexican in the black _calzoneras_, black hat, embroidered pink shirt and well-worn gunbelt... Was he really that _pistolero_, Johnny Madrid? Was he really the _patrón's_ son by a _mujer mexicana?_ Was he really _hermano_ to the white boss at the other end of town, reputed to also be a son of the house? Where was Señor Murdoch? Was he no longer running the _estancia?_ Would Johnny Madrid _shoot_ them if they didn't measure up or made a mistake or injured an animal in error? One after another, men were shaking their heads and discreetly drifting away.

**By midmorning Johnny** and Vicente had only twenty sign-ons—men in their late twenties or early thirties who'd been pointed out by Vicente as previous employees known to be competent and reliable. Relying on his companion's recommendations, Johnny hired them without hesitation. Ten more hands were needed. Johnny glumly looked over the remainder, a motley aggregation of teenagers looking more like applicants for goat herder—mostly Mexican or _mestizo_ with a sprinkling of white and some Chumash boys off the Sebastian rez.

Vicente identified a few of the Mexican and white kids as offspring of people he knew, but he had no knowledge of their horse expertise. He also had no interest in interviewing each one individually and being treated to the usual overinflated adolescent _curriculum vitae_. However, they needed warm bodies and green was better than none. He subtly hinted that it was Señor Johnny's turn to winkle out the wheat from the chaff, being as he was closer to their age. Perhaps a test of sorts?

Johnny thought frantically... what kind of test? Presumably each of them at the very least knew how to ride a horse. Standing with his back to the crowd, he looked past the corral with its snubbing post and wide gate opening to a modest pasture beyond. The livery was being mucked out and all their rentals had been turned out to pasture along with privately owned animals being boarded. His eyes sought out the four geldings ridden in from Lancer that morning—his palomino Barranca and his brother's bay Charlemagne, Cipriano's grey Duende and Vicente's piebald Frijole.

Broken only nine months ago, Barranca and Charlie still had their moments... sometimes eagerly responding to whistles, at other times completely ignoring any summons and playing the very devil to catch—as they had this morning. Duende and Frijole were naturally evil-tempered and unpredictable. The four of them—unhappy at being lumped in with a band of strange horses—had been stirring up trouble from the moment they'd been stripped of tack and turned out. Instead of grazing placidly on what sparse grass the pasture had to offer, the animals were dancing skittishly from one side to the other, nipping and kicking. Johnny had an idea.

Choosing a boy at random, Johnny handed over a catch rope, pointed out exactly _which_ horse he wanted—in this case the ornery-looking grey—and instructed the kid to _walk_ in there, get it and bring it into the corral. Seemed simple enough but the first three boys were unable to corner Duende. By then the horses, clued in to the fact that they were supposed to provide the entertainment by not allowing themselves to be caught, were alternately bunching up and scattering with each successive entrant into the arena. Even the normally placid rentals were enthusiastically pretending to be wild and unapproachable.

The fourth youngster—a tall, sturdily-built white boy with a winsome face and a mop of black curls—succeeded in outfoxing the grey, was given a thumbs-up and asked to wait. One by one the boys were tested until nine had proven their ability. The failures had trudged away, grumbling. The few remaining applicants in the clutch of would-be wranglers nervously declined the invitation to try out and departed the staging area. One more body was needed...

**Earlier, a youngster of ambiguous heritage** had earlier caught Johnny's attention. Leaning alone against the wall between the stable's open door and corral fence where it adjoined the building, he'd been watching the proceedings for some time but showed no sign of interest in participating.

Having felt the kid's eyes on him during the entire preceding hour, Johnny was both intrigued and irritated. He cocked his head and used his right index finger in the universal 'come here' gesture, in return getting the universal side-to-side head nod indicating 'no.' Perturbed, he walked over and looked into an impassive face shaded by the brim of a disreputably battered felt reservation hat with a beaded band. The rest of the kid's attire was in similarly dismal shape—tattered denims with holes in the knees, an untucked stained _puebla_ shirt with a washed-out pattern, scruffy mid-calf moccasins.

"Hey you... you speak English?"

"Yeah."

The kid looked to be about Johnny's size and build... with pale eyes and a smooth dark face marred by a long thin scar along the left jawline. A wide flattened lump at the bridge of his nose gave testimony to its having been broken at one time.

"Know horses?"

"Yeah."

"Lookin' for work?"

"Maybe."

Johnny didn't care for this borderline insolence. "Well... if you wanna work for me, you're gonna have to come on and show me whatcha got."

The kid briefly considered that before standing up straight.

"Okay."

Before Johnny could say anything else, the youngster hung his hat on a corral post, revealing a shaggy mess of mouse-brown hair that looked like it'd been hacked with a hunting knife. Next, he pulled off his shirt and flung it over the top rail, displaying a tautly-muscled torso where Johnny'd expected a cushion of baby fat. The kid was physically fit... no doubt about that... and probably somewhat older than the sixteen or seventeen years Johnny had initially gauged. But not by much.

Johnny held out the catch rope. "You'll be needin' this."

The boy eyed the rope noncommitally. "Don't think so." He slithered between the middle rails and walked with a noticeable limp toward the pasture.

"Bring me the palomino!" Johnny hollered after the retreating figure. Barranca'd take some of the smartass out of the little bastard! The nine already-hired boys joined him at the fence where they all waited to see the halfbreed get his comeuppance.

Johnny noted the marks on the kid's lower back—three narrow parallel cicatrices running diagonally from shoulder blade to waist, underscored by others older and faded—the kind of marks left by a heavy hand with a whip. The facial disfigurement was probably of the same origin.

When the kid got to mid-pasture he simply stood still. The horses milled about uneasily, trying to decide what to do about this odd human in their midst. After a few minutes the first horse sidled up to have a sniff, then another and a third. Barranca was remaining aloof, giving Johnny puzzled glances. What was he supposed to do? The stranger wasn't playing the game, wasn't chasing him around the enclosure, waving the rope around and making loud noises. Finally, curiosity overcame him and he wandered over on his own fact-finding mission, pushing the other animals aside.

Through the crush of horses, the spectactors witnessed the palomino snuffling the newest human from head to foot. An arm slowly extended itself, steady hand splayed palm upwards. Barranca gave the hand an experimental nudge and licked the palm. He snuffled his way up the arm, up and down the torso, the neck, the face. His subject didn't move an inch during this olfactory inspection.

The other arm came up. Fingers extended themselves and the horse allowed them to scratch under his chin. Slowly both hands worked their way up to the jaws and the ears. Barranca had his head pressed against the visitor's chest while the latter spoke in the horse's ear—at this distance the spectators could see the kid's mouth moving but couldn't hear his words.

The boy scratched and stroked his way from ears to withers. Then, with a hand entwined in cream-colored mane, he walked the gelding in a tight circle before making an unsuccessful first attempt to vault onto the horse's back—obvious to the onlookers that the game leg was a problem. On the second try the kid made it up, though not gracefully, and had to wriggle a bit to achieve an astride position.

Johnny held his breath, waiting for the horse to duplicate the bucking fit he'd enjoyed earlier that morning, tossing his unwary rider with malice and aforethought. Barranca turned his head once as if to verify the presence of a rider, then moved forward at a stately walk before breaking into a measured trot. Halfway around the pasture he notched up to a canter. Johnny's mouth hung open. He'd been watching closely and not once had he caught a visible signal passing between rider and horse.

Once more around the pasture and Barranca slowed back to a trot that brought them to an easy halt at the corral gate. The boy slid off and walked back to the fence opposite Johnny, the golden horse following docilely without even a guiding hand on the neck.

**Vicente caught Johnny's eye**, nodding his head almost imperceptibly in appreciation of an extraordinary performance. Over the course of many months' working together they'd often compared the Indian way of 'gentling' a horse to the cowboy way of 'breaking' one. While both preferred the previous method they were in agreement that on a busy ranch they had neither the time nor the manpower to transform a green animal into a dependable stock horse—it had to be broken to saddle and trained as quickly as possible. However, they weren't looking for broncbusters today—just men who could competently handle horses. This youngster had a incredible skill that surpassed mere confidence.

With the boy once again standing before him, Johnny had the discomfiting feeling he'd seen this face somewhere before, but the lambent eyes—variscite green flecked with gold and unblinking as an owl's—gave nothing away.

"You're hired," Johnny said. "That is... if you wanna be."

Once again the kid hesitated as if undecided, then... "Okay."

"I'm impressed, kid... but we need hands can get in and out of a large herd much faster than that."

The boy shrugged.

"Showin' off, were you?"

"Maybe..." A thin curve of a smile showed for only an instant. "...sir."

"You don't hafta call me 'sir'... I ain't anyone special."

"I know who you are."

Johnny had the creepy crawly sensation that he was being examined just as intensely as he was studying this kid, who didn't look much like a Mexican, but then he didn't look much like an Indian either. Either way, he wasn't 'white' so that put him in Murdoch's eligibility category as far as Johnny was concerned.

"Go wait with the others while I talk to my _segundo_. Don't run off." He'd already made up _his_ mind but felt it would be respectful to seek Vicente's opinion first. These kids were awfully young and they needed seasoned hands, not _escolares_. Objectivity notwithstanding, Johnny couldn't dismiss his empathy for this particular young man of mixed blood like himself. He knew what it was like to be reviled for the color of his skin, to be shunted aside like so much worthless trash, or worse—to be completely disregarded as if his life had no meaning. This youngster looked poor as a churchmouse and probably needed the job to help support a family scratching out a meagre subsistence on a bit of unclaimed land, unwanted by whites, Mexicans _or_ Indians. In his head Johnny was already composing a rebuttal in case Vicente disagreed with his choice. The kid joined the twenty-nine men and boys waiting to be officially signed up.

**Vicente Serrrato was uneasy.** He, too, had been watching this odd _joven_ from the corner of his eye, having at first glance spotted his unnerving resemblance to Señor Johnny. Which he didn't think Señor Johnny had even noticed yet. While his fingers itched to make the sign against the evil eye, he found himself treading on diplomatic eggs. Three hundred years of cultural integration between Spaniards and the natives of Central America had evolved into a proud national identity that considered itself 'pure-blooded Mexican'. This is how Vicente and his peers viewed themselves. No more or no less than did the 'pure-blooded whites' among whom they lived and worked, they tended to regard with disdain those unfortunates of other ethnic combinations. Half-white/half-Mexican occupied a lower step on the social staircase, half-native/half-anything else considerably farther down, and on the lowest level... half-black/half-anything else.

Secretly Vicente was as afraid as anyone else of Johnny Madrid the gunfighter. But... just like everyone else on the ranch old enough to remember Johnny Lancer the child, he harbored a special fondness for him. Looking at Johnny the man, his mind drifted back to a day twenty years ago when a flatbed wagon bearing a large wooden crate had arrived at the _hacienda_...

Along with all the other curious children gathered around, young Vicente was amazed when the crate was unloaded and its contents revealed... the prettiest—and smallest—pony anyone had ever seen... a present for Johnny's second birthday. The _patrón_ explained that this pony had come from the other side of the world, on a ship, over the ocean... a concept the ranch children couldn't fathom as they'd never seen a ship or an ocean... or a globe, for that matter. It had been twelve-year-old Vicente's special job to care for this pony and walk it around on a lead with its young rider perched on a miniature custom-made saddle. He'd been immensely proud of this responsibility. And at that age he hadn't yet learned the meaning of prejudice.

Although the child had disappeared along with his mother shortly thereafter, the pony—elderly now but still providing rides to the ranch's toddlers—was still around. Johnny hadn't commented on its presence so probably didn't remember it.

**Vicente was jerked **back to the present by grown Johnny asking, with a degree of irritation, for his determination. Apparently having repeated the request. Señor Johnny seemed to have satisfied himself that the young man was a native. The underboss then had a dilemma... his gut was telling him that hiring a _halfbreed anything_ was a bad idea no matter how good he'd been with the horse. But common sense was dictating in no uncertain terms that it would _not_ do to offend the _patron's mitad mexicanos _son... especially as it was plain as the mustachio on his lip that Señor Johnny wanted this one. He gave his approval... reluctantly. They moved over to the open doors of the livery where earlier they'd set up two kegs to use as chairs and a barrel that served as a writing surface for their signup sheets.

Lancer wasn't the only recruiter in town. Smaller ranchholders not part of the association were also looking to hire on a few individuals. When many of the older, more experienced wranglers lounging around as observers had shaken their heads, held up their hands in 'no thanks' gestures and sashayed away, Johnny'd been bewildered. Now he thought to ask his companion about that.

"Why don't they wanna work for us?" The explanation was that many of the older men preferred to go with smaller spreads; the work was easier on their aging bodies as most of the small ranchers' stock was in fenced ranges and the time constraints weren't as frantic.

"Also," the Mexican added a little sourly, "they know who you are..." Leaving unsaid that the presence of Johnny Madrid caused men to back away. Would he never, ever be able to shake off the spectre of death that clung to him?


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12: _**PREMONITION**

**Lancer Ranch, late afternoon... **Throughout the morning Scott had noted Cipriano's normally doleful face sagging ever deeper into gloom. On the ride home Scott niggled him about it until the big Mexican finally gave over. He was unhappy because many of the men who'd signed on to Lancer in previous years, whom he'd expected to return, had either not shown up at all or had put in a brief appearance and then left. He'd been counting on bringing these tried and proven hands on board... men who knew their jobs and the layout, didn't have to be nursemaided. He'd checked out Vicente and Señor Johnny's bunch, too... same problem there. He estimated well over half of their temporary workforce were new people and he wasn't comfortable with that—especially without the _patrón_ running the show.

But why, Scott wanted to know? There had to be reasons. He'd been told by other ranchers at association meetings, not entirely in jest, that Lancer _always_ skimmed the cream off the top of the seasonal workers. Scott hammered away (politely) until Cipriano acknowledged that part of this year's problem was Scott himself... and his brother. They feared new management by the educated one who was likely to impose stringent rules and regulations... but the bigger fear was the loose cannon—Johnny Madrid.

Scott was stung... and apprehensive, knowing Murdoch would expect a detailed report when he got back and then he'd have to explain how his brother's notoriety impinged on the quality of the hired men they'd been able to obtain. Murdoch would rage but frankly Scott couldn't see a way around it. He'd always heard that one is judged by the company one keeps. A year ago he would never in a million years have guessed that it would apply to himself on account of a little brother with a killer's reputation.

**Jelly took charge** of the incoming day's crop of hirees, showing them where to pasture their horses and directing them to their overnight accommodations. There was time before supper in the _comedor_ for a short tour of the main ranch for any of the first-timers who were interested.

Most of the newcomers had never before been on a working ranch this immense with its multiple outbuildings dedicated to different activities. The smallholds they'd sprung from boasted maybe one barn, a cowshed, a pigsty and a chicken coop. Here there was a dedicated barn for everything—dairy cows in one, stallions and geldings in another, mares in yet another. There was even a separate foaling shed with eight oversize loose boxes, four to a side facing a central aisle. Four were occupied, one of those by a dejected-looking hugely pregnant mare.

"Ain't she kinda old fer breedin'?" One of the observers inquired dubiously.

Jelly clucked importantly. "Well a course she's too old... it were a accident, like. Somebody didn't latch the gate good 'nuff an' she got out. Anyways, it ain't likely she's gonna survive this 'un. Most likely she's gonna hafta be put down an' that ain't gonna set well with Miss Teresa, nosirree. That there mare's her special pet an'..."

"Say, what's that over there?" Another man who didn't want to hear any more about a horse having to be euthanized was pointing out the door and hotfooting it in that direction with the rest of the group hurrying behind, leaving Jelly with his mouth open. Of all the nerve! Then he realized he wasn't alone...

One of the gathering... that halfbreed gimp—the one who sorta reminded him of Johnny—had slipped into the box and was stroking the mare's shoulder with one hand and feeling her side with the other, talking to her.

"Hey you... Injun boy! Come outta there! Leave that poor old gal alone!"

The intruder ignored him, moving around to the far side where he continued to poke gently at her belly, causing her to grunt.

"I said..."

_"__Te oí."_ The youngster laid his palm flat against her head between the eyes, said something to her and left the box, closing the gate gently.

"What'd you call yerself doin' in there, anyway?" Jelly sputtered.

The boy spoke in a voice so low Jelly had to strain to hear him. _"Es casi su tiempo."_

"Say what? Speak up and speak English! Me no speako ess-span-yolla!"

_"__El bebé llegará el mañana en la noche,"_ the boy continued.

"I tole ya... I don't speak yer lingo... the only part I got was 'baby' and 'night'."

The boy looked at him as if _he_ were the retard, then made motions like someone cradling a baby and pointed at the mare, enunciating clearly. "_Bebé. Mañana. Noche. ¿Entiendes?"_

Jelly got it that time. "Nah," he said dismissively. "Ain't due fer 'nuther two weeks."

"_La leche ha llegado_,_"_ the kid stated, blandly adding, _"Hay un problema. El potro se coloca mal."_

"What the devil are ya jabberin' about?"

The boy tried to explain a different way. _"El bebé no está sentada derecha."_

"Problem, Jelly?" Johnny's soft voice cut in from the doorway where he'd been lingering long enough to hear most of the discourse. He stepped in, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness.

"Cain't you get no decent hired help what speaks good English?" Jelly was puffed up with indignation like an old biddy chased off her nest.

"Considerin' most of the folks around here don't speak good English anyway, I see no particular need for it," Johnny opined pleasantly.

"What good's it do, him tryin' to tell me somethin' I cain't unnerstand?" Jelly argued. "What if he was tryin' ta tell me the barn was on fire!"

"I reckon he'd be a little more excited about it, Jelly. What he was tryin' to explain was her milk's come in and she's gonna drop tomorrow night. But there's somethin' not right with the foal."

"Yeah... well there ain't no way he could know that 'til the time comes." Jelly huffed. "An' like I said, she ain't due. What loony bin'd you find this 'un in, anyway? He's tetched in the head!"

Johnny grinned. "The Indians believe crazy folk're special... they got different abilities from the rest of us, see and sense things we can't."

Jelly blustered. "Bull! Go on now... take that pup with you. Find him somethin' to do that'll keep 'im away from me. Crazy people git on my last nerve. An' don't let him be spoutin' no more a that nonsense."

The boy stared at his detractor with those scary pale eyes. "_Mañana... por la noche_,_"_ he repeated. The hairs on the back of Jelly's neck stood straight up... and that always meant trouble was on the way.

"You go an' catch up with your ducklings," Johnny was urging. "I'll deal with this one."

**After Jelly had marched** out the door in high dudgeon, Johnny turned to the boy. "Don't mind Jelly too much and don't take it personal. He's cranky like that with everybody... even me... and I outrank him."

Not getting a response, he continued. "Look... it don't matter to me what language you use, so long's you understan' orders and follow 'em. _¿Comprende?"_

The boy's eyes coruscated green-gold in the tenebrous light of the breezeway and for an instant Johnny experienced a shock like the kind you got from touching metal or rubbing a wool garment on a cold, dry day... one that gave him goosebumps and prickled the hair on his arms. "You better get on over to the _comedor_... that's the dinner bell ringin'.

Again, no answer.

Johnny persisted. "How come you're so sure about that mare?"

Uncertainty flickered for just a moment, and then a shrug. "Just know..."

"And why wouldn't you talk English with the old man? Just curious, is all..."

"Didn't feel like it."

They both left the foaling shed, Johnny stopping to slide the door shut and watching the kid as he walked away. Something about him was eerily alien, yet—somehow—disturbingly familiar.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13: _**THE FUGITIVE IN THE BUNKHOUSE**

**Lancer Ranch, late night... **There were several empty beds in the bunkhouse as most of the regular occupants had dispersed the day before to start setting up the camps. Straws were drawn to determine which of the newcomers would get to use them instead of sleeping in the barn, and all but one of those were already sound asleep—they had a long and busy day ahead of them. On a lower bunk at the back of the room, Jody lay awake with his arms crossed behind his head, reviewing his recent activities and processing the information he'd garnered that day.

Everpresent in the back of his mind was a pervasive homesickness and the mess he'd left behind—doors that refused to stay closed. In his unfortunate history of recurring disappearances, he'd never strayed this far or stayed gone this long. Maybe this time it was because he was running _toward_ something instead of away from it. This time there'd been no blackouts—no puzzlement over why he'd left, where he'd been, how long he'd been away... or what he might have been doing in the meantime. This time he'd taken off with a defined purpose and a projection of how many weeks he expected it would take—a gross miscalculation on his part.

**The prior five months** had been a whirlwind of travel and new experiences. The railway journey from San Francisco to Boston in September had taken much longer than advertised due to inclement weather in the Midwest but, as a first-class passenger with a private compartment and a stockpile of reading material, relatively enjoyable. When not taking in the grandiosity of the passing landscape at its colorful best, he read. He had his meals delivered from the dining car. Except for occasional exchanges of courteous nods with fellow passengers in the corridor, passing to and from the sanitary facilities at either end of the sleeper, he kept to himself. This was his only major extravagance.

In Boston Jody took a room at a cheap boarding house and spent a month alternating touring the city and surveilling the Garrett mansion, watching the comings and goings—especially of that pretentious, pompous old fart in the landau. When he wasn't visiting a museum or art gallery, most evenings found Jody at the public library, tracking down all the information he could find on the Garrett family.

It was a fascinating city, all right... but not someplace he'd want to live permanently. Conversely, he pondered why a high-falutin' city boy like his half-brother—absurdly wealthy, educated and accustomed to the finest of everything—would choose to live in the semi-civilized environs of Southern California. He figured he had a pretty good handle on Scott and wasn't prepared to like him very much, concluding he must have been laughably tenderfooted upon arrival... although maybe not so soft—Uncle Trey had mentioned his serving as a cavalry officer during the War. Having now seen him Jody realized Scott Lancer was fully assimilated into the Western lifestyle and not an individual to be dismissed as inconsequential.

**The first of November** had also brought the first snowfall, in which Jody delighted for about a week until it stopped being fun and he couldn't get warm. Next stop: Cuba. Discovering that a number of entrepreneurs were conducting a lucrative business in exporting New England ice to the Greater Antilles, Jody signed on as a cabin boy on the brigantine _Nellie Bowers_ and spent an interesting twenty days at sea on the way to Havana, mostly hanging over a rail. During an especially nasty squall off Georgia's barrier islands, he learned it _was_ possible to barf up things he'd hadn't even _thought_ of eating until next week. Life on the bounding main wasn't for him.

The intended month on the sprawling plantation in the south central sugar-cane growing portion of Cuba stretched into January as he became acquainted with scores of his mother's relatives—some of whom had never heard of him but nevertheless welcomed him with open arms. From his widowed great-grandmother—Pilar's grandmother, too ancient and weary to worry about old scandals such as her daughter's and granddaughter's respective falls from grace—Jody learned firsthand of his mother's real heritage, her abandonment of her first husband and subsequent abjurement by the family. From the current head of the dynasty—Pilar's purported 'father' who was actually her uncle, Joaquin del Marín—Jody received the surprising though welcome news that, although Pilar had brought shame upon the family, her inheritance from that family—now his and his sisters'—remained intact. He would come into his when he turned thirty.

Great-uncle Joaquin had never married, yet had sired a prodigious number of rowdy male offspring by a succession of ethnically-diverse concubines. This cheerful melange of _mestizos_, _mulattoes_ and _hapas_ undertook to educate their only half-white second cousin in the intricacies of a multicultural heritage that they'd always known about whereas he'd only recently learned of his. From them Jody learned how to make his 'otherness' work to his advantage. He also learned how to hunt feral pigs with spears from horseback, how to whack open a pineapple or a coconut with a machete, how to eat with chopsticks, and a number of interesting and useful swear words in Cantonese, Taíno and pidgen English. He liked Cuba well enough, but not enough to want to emigrate there, and it was time to move on.

**Jody sailed from Cuba** to Brownsville, Texas by way of New Orleans, then crossed the border to Matamoros. He was unable to glean any significant clues, family-wise, compared to Boston and Cuba. However, he did come away with a morbidly depressing impression of what Johnny Madrid's early childhood must have been like amidst the squalor of Texas border towns. South Texas—they were welcome to it! He wished he could have been a fly on the wall when those two half-brothers first came together!

By shorthaul rail, stagecoach and horseback Jody returned to California. Winter still had an icy grip on the midwest so it took him another month to get there. He had lots of time to think about things like what he expected would be his final confrontation with that wretched excuse for a human being, Don Eduardo Montero, and his great-grandmother's sage advice that 'revenge is a dish best served cold'. His initial inner rage had long since subsided... but not his determination to destroy the man one way or another. He still hadn't settled on the means.

Heading northwards toward the San Joaquin Valley, Jody detoured by Chula Vista to check on the status of his sisters. He parked his forty-dollar grade horse in a back pasture, figuring to swap out the tired animal for one of Crown's working stock which wouldn't be immediately missed. Gaining entry to the house in the dead of night wasn't a problem even with all the first-floor windows and doors shuttered, locked and barred—a younger Jody having long ago sussed out alternate forms of ingress and egress via the second floor. The rose trellis he'd employed as a child had been torn down but the big gnarly olive tree that reached almost to Martha's bedroom terrace was still there. A short leap and he was tapping on the French doors.

What he saw in his sister's eyes and on her face, along with her frantic recitation of five months of terror, would be etched on his soul forever... as was the nightmare that followed when the door to her bedroom burst open...

**Despite the gunshot wound** to his hip, Jody managed to escape the house via the terrace, shinnying down the tree. He made it as far as the pasture fence where he'd tethered his 'borrowed' horse, having already transferred his gear to her back. Realizing he wouldn't be able to maintain consciousness for much longer, he'd ridden only as far as the bunkhouse where the native wranglers slept. He had friends there, member of the Viejas band of the Kumayaay, who spirited him away to their tribal grounds in the mountains. A month passed before he was able to ride again, by which time the resultant furor had died down. He and his stolen horse were smuggled to the docks of San Diego Bay and stowed onboard a coastal freighter bound for San Francisco.

Now having come full circle on his trek, Jody went to ground in Chinatown, utilizing handy contacts earlier supplied by Great-uncle Joaquin. There he waited for a sign that it would be safe to emerge and resume his mission. The news came in the form of an article in the _Pacific Appeal_... Don Eduardo Montero, well-known Southern California horsebreeder... brutally assaulted in his own home by person or person(s) unknown... law enforcement stymied... no leads in case. That was the last newspaper he read, wasting no time dwelling on why there'd been a cover-up.

There was some residual stiffness and pain, especially in the morning, but the limp wasn't so noticeable if he was well-rested. He collected his mare from the farm where he'd boarded her and headed southeasterly toward the Lancer _estancia_ and the town nearest, which happened to be Spanish Wells. Notices on bulletin boards around town, posted by the local cattlemen's association, announced hiring schedules for spring roundup—Lancer Ranch would be commencing the next morning in Morro Coyo.

It seemed that fate was pointing to an open door. Jody arrived with some notion of obtaining employment at Lancer, but no idea of how to go about applying for a job and no assurance that he'd even be able to. The village was full up with men seeking work and there wasn't a room to be had.

Jody spent the night in an empty stall in the livery stable, having found he wasn't up to climbing the ladder to the loft, and emerged this morning to find formidable competition already gathered by the corral, awaiting the arrival of the hiring team from the ranch. From exchanges between the men and boys perched on the top rail or lounging nearby, Jody understood that Murdoch Lancer was not in residence, away on business but expected to return within a week. Not one negative comment had been made about the rancher within Jody's hearing. Clearly he was a man held in high regard by his peers and well-respected by those who served him, which was encouraging but didn't necessarily mean he'd be welcoming of a bastard son.

The hiring team arrived and Señor Johnny was pointed out—John Lancer, the number two son... aka Johnny Madrid, gunslick... a name not unknown around Chula Vista though Uncle Trey hadn't confided that part. Perhaps he himself didn't know.

Jody was a little apprehensive that someone might remark on his and Johnny's physical similarities—they shared the same caramel-colored skin tones, body type and facial structure. And to white people half-Cuban looked the same as half-Mexican. But no one did. In his high-heeled boots Johnny stood maybe an inch or two taller than Jody in mocs. His hair was darker. And, of course, his eyes were blue. Must have come from their father's side.

Jody's keen hearing also picked up on the Mexican boss' aside to Señor Johnny that he (Jody) looked more part-Indian than part-Mexican—an astute observation on the man's part seeing as how he actually was a tiny percentage _part_-Indian and his hair'd grown out to where it brushed his shoulders. From Jody's point of view this was a convenient assumption as there'd be less likelihood of anyone's questioning the resemblance. And maybe he wouldn't work so hard to disguise that hitch in his gitalong—it was another distracting feature.

On the ride back to the ranch, Jody got an up-close look at the one identified as Scott Lancer. Seeing how he carried himself with military bearing in the saddle, his finely sculpted features and blonde hair, Jody could find nothing that tied himself genetically or culturally to this individual. He'd have to dig deeper to find an emotional connection there.

And now he was here... on their ranch. Jody fell asleep wondering what sort of bond, if any, now existed between the two brothers who hadn't known of each other's existence until last year. If so, it wasn't readily discernible—they were all business during the ride. How did two men who hadn't known they were blood kin until they were grown establish a common ground? Did they even _like_ each other? How had they reacted when they'd been introduced to each other? And more importantly... how would they react when they were introduced to _him_?


	14. Chapter 14

**• • • • • ****TUESDAY, APRIL 26 • • • • •**

_Chapter 14: _**DECISIONS IN A FOALING SHED**

**Lancer Ranch... **The day started before dawn, with some one hundred fifty new hires waiting for their turns in the latrines, bathhouse (for those few who felt a need to wash up and shave) and breakfast shifts. The previous afternoon had been consumed with crew assignments and ensuring everyone was fed and had a place to spread his bedroll. Scott was in his element... organizing his cowhands into details, dispensing orders and creating seniority rosters with input from Cipriano.

Johnny, on the other hand, wasn't having such any easy time of it. Five of his ten teenagers had gone missing, chickened out... either failed to show up or stolen away during the night. Mathematics wasn't his strong suit and he had only twenty-five bodies to fill thirty slots. In desperation he appealed to Scott, who wasn't about to second any of _his_ troops. Vicente appealed to Cipriano who grudgingly consented to let them have five ranch hands... if they could find any willing to volunteer. Horse wrangling, it turned out, was everyone's least favorite job because it meant staying in camp all day every day with very little riding around involved...

In the end Vicente came up with four retirees who normally spent their days tending goats, grandchildren and vegetable patches. The aging _vaqueros_ agreed to serve in advisory capacities and only if they wouldn't be required to actually board fractious horses—that was for the _jóvenes_. A bucking bronc was no country for an old man!

Intending to head up the fifth contingent himself, Vicente cut out the four youngest teenage hirees and parceled out the other twenty men among the four other camps with one experienced if elderly wrangler—knowledgeable of the terrain, the camp layout, and the equine stock—at the helm of each. Johnny agreed.

**Right after breakfast **Scott and Cipriano went to the stores building, where gear was signed out according to who needed what. Johnny and Vicente went to the corrals where horses were to be matched up with riders. Murdoch believed that familiarity made better working partnerships between riders and horses, and that a rider would take greater care with the horses he considered his 'own'. Any rider could take any horse out of a remuda if necessary, but Murdoch preferred that each man stick with the ones assigned to him.

Men who'd already received their camp assignments and gear were allowed, in order of seniority, to choose their primaries—if they didn't have one of their own—and remounts from the herd of seasoned horses. When those were pretty well picked over, batches of half-broke horses were run into a series of pens to be looked over by hands lower on the totem pole. The new wranglers were sent in to rope each selection and drag the resistant captive to the snubbing post in a waiting corral, where the selector had to saddle and ride the cranky out of it himself during the 'getting acquainted' phase.

Before they got started Johnny took Jody aside and explained that while he personally favored the 'Indian' way of gentling a horse they didn't have time for that today. Jody merely shrugged his acknowledgment and saddled his little red mare.

The waiting men had been at first derisive and then respectful as the crippled young wrangler and his diminutive horse accomplished their task quietly and efficiently without getting the animals all stirred up, while in other corrals ropers dashed back and forth with excessive amounts of whooping and hollering. Jody's corral was cycling horses through much faster than the others and the ones he delivered not nearly as enervated, easier to saddle. That didn't mean they didn't buck just as wickedly when their future riders got on them.

Johnny'd been busy as well but his attention kept returning to this one particular new hire although he couldn't have explained why. The boy rarely spoke and then only when asked a direct question. Johnny had the uneasy feeling the kid was watching him as well. But why? Who and what was he and where had he come from?

**Among the last to get supper,** Jody repaired to the almost deserted communal bathhouse, an innovative facility for that time and place. Raised off the ground on posts with a sump underneath, the structure was solidly built and sealed to keep in the warmth in winter. With door and windows shut not a whisper of steam could escape. In the summertime they were left open to induce air flow. Well water was pumped directly into a huge iron cistern over a brick firebox squatting near the building. At certain times of the day the firebox was stoked up until the cistern was bubbling with hot water ready to be piped into the building at the turn of a valve. Another hand pump brought cold well water directly inside to fill four large wooden tubs, to which hot water was added by bucket until bath water reached optimum temperature. Each tub drained to conduits under the floor into a holding tank from which gray water was recycled through viaducts to the community vegetable garden. No wastage of water resources here!

Usage was dictated by gender: women and children from lunch until sundown, men thereafter. Not everyone was accustomed to bathing every day, of course. Jody, however, was immensely grateful for the amenity and intended to enjoy it to the max before moving out to the line camp where, he suspected, consideration for personal hygiene would be negligible. The night before he'd been the only user but tonight two of the tubs were occupied by Cipriano and Vicente and their fragrant San Andrés Te-Amos cigars.

Jody hesitated, unsure of his reception and wary of any indication the two Mexicans might be unhappy at sharing the facility with a halfbreed native. He'd started to back away but the two older men waved him in, Cipriano assuring him that in the bathhouse all were equal... even offering him a cigar, which Jody politely declined.

The other two tubs had already been drained and refilled with fresh water for the morrow, so all Jody had to do was add hot water until steamy tendrils drifting off the surface indicated it was hot enough. Having long ago gotten over any shyness about modesty, he stripped down and sluiced most of the day's grubbiness off with dippers of cold water from a barrel before climbing gratefully into the deep tub.

Jody hoped the other two weren't of a mind to ask personal questions. Fortunately, they confined the conversation to the day's events and queries that could be safely answered mostly in monosyllables. Eventually the older men got out, dried off and dressed, leaving Jody on his own to contemplate his immediate future which, for the moment, felt relatively secure.

Vicente had advised his wranglers that today they'd dealt with approximately half of the horses destined for the line camp remudas, but that he expected they would get through the rest by end of day tomorrow. The remudas going to Falcon, Osprey and Eagle would be moving out tomorrow morning—Wednesday. The largest herds—Hawk's and Condor's (to which Jody'd been assigned)—were heading out on Thursday or Friday.

Having never participated in a cattle roundup before, Jody was looking forward to the experience even though he wouldn't personally be working any cattle. His only concern was that he might not have access to the Lancers themselves, _padre e hijos_. No one had yet mentioned whether or not any of them would actually be present in the camps. Mentally rehearsing what he would say when the time came, he drowsed as the hot water soothed away the stresses and strains of the past few days and loosened the tightness in his bad hip...

**Jody was awakened **by Cipriano's huge hand gently shaking his shoulder. The _segundo_ was a big man for a Mexican... and tall.

"_José, ven conmigo, por favor._"

For a moment Jody thought the man had made a mistake and was looking for someone else named José... then he recalled what Johnny had not too carefully printed on the signup sheet: 'Joey'. Which is why Cipriano had misunderstood his name as 'Joseph'.

Jody had no way of knowing how long he'd been soaking but the water was lukewarm. Time to get out anyway. He stood and stepped out, accepting the towel the big man was holding out to him. He didn't bother to ask what Cipriano wanted with him—he already knew. The Mexican pulled the bung on the tub to let it drain while Jody dried off and slipped on his pants and moccasins. Pulling on his shirt but not bothering to button it, he exited a few paces behind the _segundo_ and followed him out to the foaling shed.

Gathered outside the laboring mare's box were Señors Scott and Johnny, Vicente, the grumpy old man called Jelly, and an unhappy white girl dressed like a boy whom Jody'd noted going in and out of the big house earlier. All except Señor Scott and Jelly were chattering in rapid Spanish. A lantern depending from a ceiling hook illuminated the mare lying on her near side. Jody hung back, partially hidden by Cipriano's bulk, until he understood the gist of the conversation.

The mare was old... twenty-four... and wasn't supposed to have been bred. She was, or had been, the girl Teresa's personal mount since she'd been old enough to ride, which was why she was so upset... chances weren't good that the animal would survive. The mare had been in labor too long, was weakening and nothing was happening. The men were discussing whether to give up and put her down. The girl was begging for more time. Scott was on her side.

Cipriano grasped Jody and propelled him forward. Six pairs of eyes fixed on him... clearly expecting _something_ from him. Evidently word had got around about his prognostication the prior evening. This wasn't the sort of attention Jody was prepared for and he had only two choices: let the mare go on as she was and she'd die, her foal along with her... or risk compromising his mission by doing something he knew how to do and had done before, successfully... thus drawing unwanted attention to himself.

The door to the stall was open and Jody had a straight line of sight to the suffering animal in the straw. He'd lived with horses his entire life excluding four years at boarding school—during which he'd absorbed every textbook on veterinary medicine he could find in both the school and public libraries. When he was forced to go home for extended periods he spent every waking moment in the stables, putting into practice what he'd read or viewed under the guidance of the seasoned horsemen in charge of Crown Montero's and later Vista Montero's prized horses.

Jody believed he could sense what horses felt and thought, and that they had a psychic connection to him which only his sisters understood as they shared it. Poor girls! They were even worse off than himself. Being girls, they had absolutely no control over their lives. He'd heard through the grapevine that they were currently cloistered in a convent with nary a horse in sight, shut away from the rest of the world. Poor Martha! Only fifteen and already promised to someone she'd met once and hated. Assuming their guardian was Campbell Cameron—an educated modern-thinking man who would have expressed shock and dismay when advised of the betrothal—Jody was confident that if she put up enough resistance when she turned sixteen and marriage was imminent, Uncle Trey would find some way to abrogate the contract.

Beyond the psychic links with his sisters—they could just about read one another's minds and anticipate actions, Jody occasionally—very rarely—experienced one of those flashes linking him to another human being, though even more rarely did he allow his subconscious to reach out and touch that other person. In the foaling shed on Monday, the invisible flash that'd arced between himself and Johnny had been so vivid it was almost painful. He couldn't imagine how the other hadn't sensed it... and it had knocked him off balance. And now it was happening again... someone stepped between him and the mare. Jody was startled into looking up, encountering a pair of eyes blazing like blue fire. This time he was sure Johnny felt it, too.

"You're the one called it..." Johnny said softly. "Can you help her?" Or maybe he didn't actually ask the question... but Jody heard it clearly enough, realizing his errant thoughts were jumping around like beans on a skillet. He resolutely tamped them back into their respective compartments so he could focus on the problem at hand... which was helping that mare. The fact that he was physically tired was a drawback... but...

Johnny moved out of the way and Jody slipped into the box before the astonished group could even react. Kneeling at the mare's side, he ran his hands over her flanks and gently prodded her distended belly in several places, all the while murmuring to her. She seemed to calm down some.

"What's he doing in there?" Scott demanded angrily. "Who the hell is he?" One Mexican still looked pretty much like another to him and he didn't recognize this one as one of Johnny's hires. And aside from his own brother he couldn't distinguish a halfbreed from a full-blooded Mexican. He'd taken a step forward but Johnny grabbed his arm and pushed him back. "Wait a minute, brother... Joey here's one a mine and he knows horses... we seen him work." Vicente nodded in agreement.

Johnny turned his head to Jody. "So whaddya think?"

The reserved monosyllabic teenager had disappeared—replaced by an entirely different personality... that of a composed and confident adult...

"Could be breeched... could be something else. Won't know until I go in."

"Go in... where...?" Following Jody's meaningful glance toward the mare's rear, Johnny gulped. "Are you serious?"

"How else do you expect to reposition the foal."

"You can do that?"

"Yeah... without making any promises. I'll need some things... and I'll need help."

Johnny addressed Teresa. "Your decision, _chiquita_. We either put her outta her misery now or let Joey do whatever it is he thinks he can do."

Teresa in turn looked to Cipriano. "You know how much I love this horse, but I want to do what's right... I don't want her to suffer. Whatever you decide, I'll go along with it..."

The big man looked at the mare, shaking his head dolefully, saying that if it was a breech birth, he'd never seen one that didn't end in disaster... but there was a first time for everything. His vote was yes, let the boy try.

Teresa hugged him in gratitude. Beside her, Scott—quivering with pent-up fury—was attempting and failing to wrench free from his brother's grasp. "I vote no!" His concern was more for his surrogate sister and how badly she'd take losing this particular horse, especially after being given false hope.

Johnny told him to shut up and merely tightened his hold on the arm while he considered the dichotomy of what he was seeing versus what he was hearing. On the one hand, a raggedy halfbreed kid—much like himself a few years ago. On the other hand, a seemingly educated, well-spoken young man with the knowledge and ability to salvage a dire situation. "Tell us what you need."


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15: _**A QUESTION OF FAITH**

**Lancer Ranch, mid-evening... **Though he'd never served in the military, Johnny knew there was a time to lead and a time to follow without question. He'd done his share of both and knew in his gut that this was one of those times to follow. He said as much to Scott.

"Why should we pay any attention to him?" Scott snarled, turning to Cipriano for affirmation but finding no ally there.

In the background Jelly was squawking he'd more practical experience with birthing four-legged babies than anyone else... they should have fetched him to begin with... were they out of their minds, letting this puny halfbreed near a valuable horse? "How come everone's takin' his word that foal's breeched?!"

Scott was incredulous. "No one can know that ahead of time."

"I guess we're about to find out, ain't we?" Johnny grinned.

"We need to get her up if we can," Jody stated, but even the combined efforts of six men and a girl couldn't get the weakened mare to her feet. Everyone backed out of the box except Jody and Johnny.

"What now?" Johnny queried.

"We go with what we've got."

Johnny again asked Joey what he'd be needing.

"Two buckets of hot soapy water—one for her, one for us. A bucket of clean lukewarm water. Clean rags. Disinfectant—carbolic soap if that's all you have. Some kind of lubricant—that new stuff, petroleum jelly, would be great if you have any or maybe some lanolin if you don't. Manicure scissors, a nail brush, a small sharp knife and a bowl to put them in. Alcohol. Rope. An empty bucket. Some kind of strong, soft cord—old braided reins would do..." Jody pointed to Teresa. "You... come in here... sit by her head, talk to her, keep her occupied."

The men standing in the breezeway just looked at each other with the same thought in mind... _all this claptrap for the birth of a foal_... when mares dropped them in pastures and out on the range all the time without human assistance?

As Teresa sidled by, looking down at the mare with doubt and despair on her elfin face, Jody reached over and touched her shoulder lightly. "Look at me. Listen to me. It's going to be alright. Sometimes you just have to take things on faith... to believe other people know what to do and how to do it, even if you don't. Trust me." Johnny's mouth fell open—this was the longest string of words to come out of that kid's mouth since Monday morning.

He forcibly dragged Scott away. "Come on, let's you and me and Jelly get the stuff from the house. Cip, Vin... you get the buckets and ropes." Within minutes the five returned with the requested items.

**Jody and Johnny worked together** binding up the mare's tail with twine to get it out of the way, cleaning up her backside with a rag soaked in hot soapy water and disinfectant.

Stripping off his shirt, Jody began washing off his arms, shoulders and chest, indicating to Johnny to do the same.

"Why me? I ain't about to..."

"I said I needed help... that's what I meant." Jody answered with finality. Fishing Teresa's manicure scissors and nailfile from the bowl of alcohol, he gave his nails a quick trim, checking for rough spots. Johnny followed suit, not too sure what was about to happen, feeling self-conscious and a little silly. They both thoroughly scrubbed hands and fingers with carbolic soap.

Jody squatted behind the mare, studying the best approach. The mare was lying on her left side, which wasn't good because Jody was right-handed. If the foal _was_ breeched, he'd have to go after its left leg first with his left hand because of the angle of the birth canal, and he'd have seventy to eighty pounds of foal weight resting on that arm. Once that leg was extracted the sac would probably be ruptured and he'd have to work quickly. There'd be even less room once he went for the right leg, but then he'd be using his stronger right arm and the weight of the foal would be below, instead of of above, his hand. The only other alternative would be to have the men flip the mare over to her right side and then back again, which would use up precious minutes. Sighing, he scooped up a big gob of petroleum jelly and applied it to his left arm.

From her position near the mare's head, Teresa called plaintively. "Is there something I can do?"

"No, you're doing great right where you're at," Jody said.

"But I'm not really doing anything..."

"Sure you are. She's hurting and scared. Just your being here, talking to her, is a great comfort. As long as you know someone cares and has your back, you can face almost anything, even if you fail. Animals are no different from people in that respect. Understand?"

She nodded that she did. "If only _she_ could..."

"Oh, she does, she does," Jody reassured her, "Empathy doesn't require speech. She may not know your words, but she knows what you're feeling."

In the breezeway Scott glowered and Jelly objected loudly that this was no time for idle chitchat. Johnny was listening attentively. This odd young man had just articulated his own philosophy of animal care, which had always been that animals deserved the same concern, compassion and respect as their human counterparts—something he'd rarely tried to explain to others as he'd never found the right words. It was at times like these that his lack of education—something he'd never fretted unduly about before as it wasn't particularly necessary to his former line of work—made him understand just how important effective communication was in this new environment.

The other thing he noted was the difference in the way Jody interacted with Teresa. In dialogue with his own gender he tended to be terse and unfriendly whereas the girl he addressed as a peer with no hint of condescension to the fairer sex.

Jody stood and addressed the crowd outside the box. "You all need to step back to where she can't see you... and keep your voices down—you're making her nervous. Once I get started I have to move fast or the foal will suffocate."

A few feet away and still smarting with resentment, Scott made another caustic remark. Hunkered down behind the mare, Johnny gave him the stink eye.

"If you don't do what he says, I'll personally boot you right out the door..."

"You'll _what?_"

"Yeah... and I'll help!" Teresa threatened.

Scott's mouth snapped shut.

**In the meantime **the mare had continued to have strong contractions. Finally her water broke, generating an involuntary "eeuuyew" from Johnny as he and Jody were both soaked with allantoic fluid. Positioning his body at a workable angle, though obviously awkward and uncomfortable for him, Jody started easing his arm into the birth canal, grunting each time a contraction gripped it.

"Well?" Johnny asked.

"Not breeched. Head and neck turned sideways... legs not extended..." came the muffled reply.

"What's happening?" Teresa complained, torn between remaining at her post where she couldn't see anything and wanting to be down at the action end.

"It ain't a breech... but it ain't good... head turned the wrong way," Johnny relayed.

Jody stopped speaking, his eyes closed in concentration on his unseen manipulation, already soaked with perspiration. The muscles of his back flexed with his efforts, the three bands of scars there undulating like satin ribbons. From time to time he paused and rested his forehead against the mare's sweat-drenched haunch. There was dead silence from the spectator side of the box door as four faces watched in rapt fascination.

"What're you doin'?" Johnny finally whispered. The suspense was killing him.

"Got my hand on its lower jaw. Gonna try to bring it up and forward... what I need you to do is push its chest back a little so the head'll clear the pelvic rim..."

"Huh? How..."

"Slide your arm in right under mine..."

"What? Now?!"

"Yes... right now... when you feel the foal, push back as hard as you can..."

In order to do this, Johnny had to lie down next to Jody and slide his arm under the other's armpit and into the mare until his hand met a solid presence. At this point, with his face buried in the back of Jody's neck, they were in such an incongruous position Johnny couldn't help himself. "We gotta stop meeting like this." A few chuckles erupted from the gallery... most noticeably from Scott... all of whom had crept forward so they could peer over the partition.

What Scott knew about horses he'd mostly learned in the past nine months on a working ranch. True, he'd always had riding horses at his disposal while growing up... but he'd never been actively engaged in their care and maintenance until joining the cavalry. The Garretts had grooms and stableboys to take care of that. From tiny ponies for toddler Scott to tall, rangy hunters for collegiate Scott, they'd always been presented ready to climb aboard whenever he wished to ride. He'd never tacked, untacked, cooled, schooled, medicated, fed or groomed his own mount. Even during the War he'd always had an orderly to do that for him. He'd never mucked out a stall and had certainly never been present during the birth process. Total horse management was still a relatively new experience for the Easterner, who'd now got over his mad and was fully absorbed in the proceedings.

**"****After the next contraction, push..."**

Johnny pushed and was surprised that he could actually move the foal backwards.

"Keep your hand there... push only between contractions. I've got the head turned around."

"What are you doing now?"

"Going after a fetlock to bring one leg up and out. Keep pushing." Jody finally was able to cup a tiny hoof, easing it forward. The pressure on Johnny's arm, squashed painfully alongside Jody's, lessened as the foot came out. Jody instructed him to grab the pastern and hold on with his free hand.

"Be careful not to twist it. I'm going in with my right arm after the other leg so I have to change positions." Jody quickly lubricated the other arm and climbed over his prone partner. This time he was on top... an even more compromising position that brought on more snickering. Even the normally enigmatic Cipriano was having a hard time containing his amusement. Teresa's face turned pink as she strove to contain her laughter. Johnny knew he'd never, ever live this down.

There was even less room to work now but not as difficult because Jody didn't have to contend with the weight of the foal. When at last the second hoof was extracted and a tiny nose followed, Jody advised Johnny he could pull out as well.

"Now what?" Even Johnny could tell the mare was weakening... the contractions were spacing farther apart and weren't nearly as forceful.

"Now we loop a rein around each leg like this... maintain tension and pull with each contraction... gently but firmly. The umbilical cord is crushed between the foal's hips and her pelvis... we've got less than five minutes..." An eternity dragged by until the rest of the head appeared. Jody tore the sac open, scooping mucus away from the foal's nostrils and eyes. With a plop the rest of the foal slid out. There was a collective expulsion of held breaths.

**Familiar with the post-partum **cleanup process, Teresa clambered up and came over to take charge of the foal, whooping in exultation. "It's a filly!" Together she and Johnny stripped off the remainder of the sac and checked to make sure no fragile bones had been compromised, then rubbed the little palomino with clean burlap sacks. The mare seemed to rally, craning her head around looking for her baby.

Drenched in slime and amniotic fluid, streaked with blood and feces (an unfortunate accompaniment), Jody'd fallen back on some clean straw in a corner, closing his eyes in utter exhaustion. Despite his confidence he'd be able to handle the foaling emergency—which he had—his physical reserves had already been almost depleted to begin with. His bruised hands, arms and shoulders were wracked with painful cramps and the not-quite-healed hip was protesting.

"What next?" Johnny asked. Getting no reply, he reached over and shook Jody's shoulder. "Joey... whadda we do now?

"Uh... oh... nothing... the mare'll take care of the rest... if she's too weak to get up in ten minutes or so she'll need help... might have to use ropes... should be easier because she'll be working with you, not against you."

Cipriano and Vicente were giving the mare and her miracle foal, along with their savior, long contemplative looks, silently mouthing prayers while crossing themselves. Scott and Jelly entered the box, both with big grins on their faces... more for Teresa's happiness than anything else. The girl leaped up to fling herself at the nearest individual, which happened to be Scott, and enveloped him in a fierce embrace, laughing and crying at the same time. "Oh Scott... we did it. She's beautiful!"

As it was getting late, Cipriano declared it would be best if everyone went away now and got some sleep—tomorrow was another work day for the humans and mother and baby needed to get on with the bonding process in peace and quiet. He and Vicente would wait around to clean up the afterbirth and remove the buckets and other paraphernalia.

The only one who noticed Jody unsteadily exiting the box was Johnny.


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16: _**BROTHERS IN A BATHHOUSE**

**Lancer Ranch, late night... **Johnny found Jody right outside the shed, both hands braced against the wall and upchucking the supper he'd consumed earlier. No sense in asking him if he was alright when he so obviously wasn't. Johnny's own hands were trembling from the earlier exertion and he too would be sporting bruises in the morning.

"You did good in there, kid," he said quietly. He'd brought a dipper of water from the trough nearboy, instructing Jody to rinse and spit. "Stay there a sec while I tell Scott somethin', then you and me's goin' to the bathhouse... Cipriano had someone refire the boiler while we were busy." When he returned a minute later the kid was swaying on his feet, close to passing out. Johnny propped him up by the arm as they walked.

Scott accompanied Teresa to the house and demanded she go to bed and stay there. Otherwise, he knew, she'd spend the remainder of the night in the foaling shed. Going upstairs into Johnny's bedroom he rummaged in the bureau, collecting two sets of the soft cotton shirts and pants to take back to the bathhouse. On second thought he added a stack of thick house towels from the lavatory on his way back downstairs.

By the time Scott got to the bathhouse, Johnny and Jody were sunk up to their necks in water as hot as they could stand. Scott put the pile of clothing on a small side table and sat on the bench with his long legs splayed out and his back to the wall, too wound up to go to sleep right now. Nothing much could be done about the bruises on either boys' arms besides rubbing with liniment. Briefly he thought about soaking in a tub himself... but he was too tired to move and decided he'd just rest a bit and walk back to the house with his brother.

**Scott thought about** what he'd just witnessed. He'd never seen anything like it, hadn't known it could be done. The idea of sticking one's entire arm up a horse's ass was both repellent and funny as hell... but look at what the result had been. Even if the mare didn't make it, and she still might not after her ordeal, having the foal to cherish and look after would take much of the sting of loss from the young woman Scott accepted as his sister in every way. He had no romantic leanings toward her whatsoever, no matter what ideas she herself or Murdoch might be harboring. It had startled him when she'd wrapped her arms around him earlier... and not in a sisterly way, but that certainly hadn't been the moment to set her straight. That moment was coming, he had no doubt... and he'd have to find a way to deal with it diplomatically...

Johnny was inclined to linger in the tub but knew he had a hard day coming up along with the sun... everyone would have. Reluctantly he climbed out and started toweling himself off. The door and windows had been closed against the cool night air and the room was thick with steam, rendering a blurry, surrealistic appearance to walls, furnishings and occupants.

So many scars, Scott was thinking as he watched his brother... not so rail-thin as he'd been nine months ago when they'd first met but still probably somewhat below a healthy weight-to-height ratio. In the months they'd been together the brothers had, of course, seen each other in various states of undress. Scott had his own share of scars... but Johnny... well, Scott hadn't seen a body so riddled with mementos of gun battles and knife fights since the War... and those bodies had been dead. How Johnny had ever survived to adulthood Scott couldn't imagine. And maybe he didn't want to... living through war and imprisonment as he had, he could accept that bloodshed was an inevitable part of that condition. But to exist like Johnny had... a civilian... living by the gun and in constant anticipation of violent death since childhood... that was beyond all comprehension.

Odd, Scott thought, how men never questioned other men as to how they'd acquired their indelible reminders of mayhem and mishap. The so-called fairer sex, on the other hand, never hesitated to ask! Morbidly curious little creatures, women were.

Both as an older brother and as a former military officer charged with the physical and emotional welfare of those under his command, Scott quite naturally felt a sense of protectiveness and responsibility toward Johnny... which was absurd, really, considering that John Madrid had come this far without his brother's oversight in either capacity. Still, Scott couldn't help but worry about the inner, invisible scars on the younger man's psyche... and whether his sibling would ever find peace in what passed for the normal world as Scott knew it. Scott had psychological gremlins of his own, he knew... but they were almost all war-related so he had plenty of company. Johnny's were all life-related. Scott and Murdoch had often discussed this but so far hadn't come up with any ideas that would help their respective brother and son overcome the phantasms of Johnny Madrid's past.

**For his part, **Johnny was also thinking about _his_ brother. When he gave it much thought—and he often did—he was surprised at the affection he'd built up for the sibling he hadn't even known about until last year. He liked and admired his elegant city-bred, exquisitely-mannered, highly-educated brother although he had yet to identify much that they had in common other than their father. There were no physical similarities, no mannerisms, nothing. They still had so much to learn about each other.

Johnny was also wondering about the half-asleep youngster in the tub, with his purple-blotched arms extended along the rim so he wouldn't slide under the water. What was _his_ story? What would it be like to have a brother who looked like him and shared his ethnic diversity, had grown up poor like him in a depressive environment? Apparently Joey hadn't... but who were his people and why wasn't he with them now, instead of here? That he was educated was evident—who had cared enough about him to send him to school? What had he done to deserve those badges of dishonor on his back and face? How come a kid who didn't even need to shave every day had such extraordinary self-confidence... something Johnny Madrid had yet to achieve when he wasn't automatically operating from behind a shield of stoicism?

**The hot water had revived **Jody's mind although his body wasn't appreciating these new aches and pains in addition to the ones he'd tried to soak away earlier. Through half-closed eyes and the mantle of mist he was carefully observing the other two men. _Brothers._ He tried the word on for size. _His_ brothers.

So far, he felt ambivalent about the Boston dandy who, logic dictated, couldn't be anything _other_ than his brother, but he was seeing more of himself in the shorter, darker man. Not so much physically, although they did of course have a comparable Latino heritage... no, it was more the way Johnny carried himself, his quiet manner, the way he often gazed into the distance like a raptor eyeing a mouse, or ducked his head shyly as if unsure of himself in conversation. Of the two, Jody so far preferred Johnny. And he hadn't met the old man yet, couldn't begin to imagine what _he_ looked like except, of course... _white_.

Jody already felt an affinity with Johnny... like himself a product of dissimilar cultures. The difference here was that Johnny (Jody assumed) had always lived in two worlds—white and Mexican. Period. His own world had been, basically, Mexican-Cuban, since he hadn't known about his Anglo father... and now he was having to scratch Mexican and instead factor in indigenous Caribbean and white middle class. He had a premonition it wasn't going to be easy... and that the Lancers might reject a cuckoo being dropped into their cozy nest. He wasn't sure himself if this was what he wanted... it might be simpler in the long run to drop out before he ever truly dropped in. Go home. Go back to school. Follow the path fate seemed to have laid out for him... if he could.

It was a good feeling... to have saved the day for the mare and foal, not to mention the girl... but inadvertently becoming the center of so much attention might have screwed his plan to hang around anonymously... getting to know his new family before they even got to know of his existence. He especially wanted a chance to get the measure of his biological father before the man found out who he was... and he wondered where that worthy individual might be at the moment.

On Friday Jody'd be moving out to the line camp with the others and there was no guarantee their mutual father would even show himself there, especially if he was the type of gentleman rancher Jody imagined him to be... who never personally dirtied his own hands when he could hire someone else to do for him.

**At that point** he became aware of Johnny telling him it was time to get out of the tub and holding out a thirsty white towel.

_"__Gracias..."_

"Drop the bull, Joey, an' put these on," Johnny grinned, handing over the shirt and pants. "It's a little late to be pretendin' you just fell off the taco cart yesterday, ain't it?"

"Whatever you say," Jody responded diffidently.

When Johnny saw that nothing else was forthcoming, not tonight, he shrugged and gave up, turning to Scott. "He's pretty beat up. Maybe we should put him up in one of the guest rooms... just for tonight?"

"Bad precedent, showing preferential treatment," Scott said, shaking his head negatively.

At the same time Jody was backing up. "I'll be fine in the bunkhouse." He bundled up his soiled clothes and started toward the door, but Johnny had his stubborn face on and barred the way.

"Don't care about precedent, Boston. He's comin' up to the house with us. He didn't hafta do what he did for us tonight, gettin' us out of a jam... that ain't in his job description. He deserves special treatment... at least for a day or two."

Too tired to argue, Scott threw up his hands. "Okay, okay... have it your way." He got up to open the draincocks on the tubs as Johnny got together his own dirty clothes and towels.

The house was darkened and quiet but Maria Elena was still up waiting for them, in case they wanted coffee or something to eat. Asking no questions, she indicated where to leave the filthy laundry and scurried upstairs to open up the spare bedroom next to Johnny's. Jody was definitely listing to port and limping badly as Johnny moved to help him up the staircase.

"I can make it," Jody grunted, clutching the bannister. Scott had a flashback to nine months ago—the day after his and Johnny's simultaneous arrival—when he'd attempted to help his wounded brother to the house and had been brushed off. Johnny had used those exact words right before passing out. Scott had caught him before he hit the ground, slung him over a shoulder and carried him the rest of the way. So Scott prudently followed them up the stairs two paces behind... just in case.

Having got Jody stripped and installed in bed—he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow—the two Lancers paused at the door to Johnny's room.

"Interesting kid," Scott remarked before continuing on to his own room. "Sleep well, brother."

"Ain't he, though," Johnny agreed. Interesting was an understatement. "Yeah, you too, brother. See you in the mornin'."


	17. Chapter 17

**• • • • • ****WEDNESDAY, APRIL 27 • • • • •**

_Chapter 17: _**WORSE NEWS**

**La Villa Cameron, morning... **Murdoch Lancer's day had not started well. He felt terrible. His sinuses were clogged up, his chest congested, and his back ached abominably in addition to hip and leg. If his head hadn't been buzzing with bottled up anxiety he would have happily stayed in bed and slept all day with the curtains drawn tight against the morning sun. At breakfast he'd accepted only two pieces of lightly buttered toast and a large glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice.

The question looming in the rancher's mind now was not _'if'_ but _'when'_. He sensed that there were further issues concerning this troubled young man... _his son_... that Trey had yet to broach... and he was worried. As before, the three of them arranged themselves at the table in the greatroom, waiting until Amanda had appeared with the coffee service, poured and withdrawn.

"Where were we?" Murdoch asked the retired lawyer and his wife. Both were looking as if they'd really rather be someplace else.

Luisa plunged right in. "I was about to speak of Jody's problems..."

**Murdoch chuckled. **"All teenage boys have problems growing into their skins."

"Not like this one. Shortly after he came to stay with us we began noticing a certain... oddness... in the boy's behavior," Luisa continued. "It was as if two different personalities were inhabiting the same skin. Most of the time he acted normal, albeit unusually quiet and self-contained for a little boy..."

"And at other times...?" Murdoch prodded.

"At other times he'd go for days without speaking at all... or wouldn't respond, as if he were deaf or we didn't exist. His teachers complained he refused to participate, at times outright ignoring them. He was never overtly disruptive in the classroom unless another child picked on him, and then of course he'd retaliate... but they viewed this is as deliberate misbehavior and would administer corporal punishment, or put him on suspension. They even recommended expulsion."

"That must've been quite a burden on you, Luisa," Murdoch said quietly.

"I was concerned he might be too much for her to handle," Trey admitted, "But Luisa's an infinite well of patience... look at how she puts up with me! She was determined to get to the bottom of the problem..."

**"****Without telling Trey or Ed,"** Luisa resumed, "I began consulting with physicians specializing in mental illnesses. One after another stated there was nothing to be done—the child was afflicted with epilepsy, or was retarded or mentally unstable and should be institutionalized. Then a friend of mine—a Catholic nun—introduced me to Doctor Jean-Luc Charcot at the Los Angeles Infirmary... that's the hospital run by the Sisters of Charity of Saint Vincent DePaul. Jean-Luc is a younger brother of Jean-Martin Charcot, the famous French neurologist..."

"Lulu..." Trey warned. "You're wandering off-topic."

"What? Oh... yes... sorry. Doctor Charcot is also a neurologist... but he has a special interest in what he calls 'pediatric psychiatry and psychology'..."

"Excuse me, Luisa, but... 'pediatric' means having to do with children, yes?"

"Correct... in this case, disturbed children."

"And could you explain 'psychiatry' and 'psychologist'? I've not heard these terms before..."

"Few people have, Murdo... being as they're fairly new disciplines. Simply put, a 'psychiatrist' studies how the brain works and governs behavior. A 'psychologist' studies how the mind functions, and provides counseling and therapy. As yet very little is understood about mental illnesses... especially in children.

**At first Doctor Charcot diagnosed** Jody's condition as 'psychogenic epilepsy'... meaning that while his blackouts closely resembled petit mal seizures they were not actually evidence of the disorder. But he later determined it was something else. According to him there's a condition—a developmental disability medical science doesn't yet understand or have a term for—that involves delays in learning language, behavior and social skills. Often this results in lifetime impairment. There's a wide divergence of opinion as to the causes... whether it's hereditary, congenital, environmental, trauma-induced, the result of a physical illness... they simply don't know."

"I see... I think. Ah... how is it you know so much about this subject, Luisa?"

The lady smiled. "Perhaps you've forgotten... I trained as a nurse long before I met Trey. I am _somewhat_ older than he, you know. I was still doing some volunteer nursing up until Trey needed me more. Plus, I read up on the subject—everything I could get my hands on."

"Yes... you're right... I'd forgotten about that..."

"Doctor Charcot's a devotee of the works of Dorothea Dix, with a commitment to rehabilitation of mentally challenged children, rather than incarceration. He firmly believes that by being taught coping skills from an early age they can learn to deal with their conditions and overcome their limitations to live normal lives... rather like blind and deaf persons or amputees learn to accommodate their loss. Doctor Charcot was a Godsend... he worked with us for a year and a half. The intervals between attacks gradually increased—Jody had only one in the last six months he was with us..."

"Can you cite an example of a 'coping skill'?" As ever, a second track in Murdoch's mind was examining everything he was hearing in the context of how it might have applied... or might be applied in the future... to the black sheep back home. Was Johnny too old at this point to learn these so-called 'coping skills'? Could a 'coping skill' include being able to step back and assess a situation logically before turning to the fist or the gun?

"Certainly. Jody can usually sense when these spells are coming on. We had worked out an agreement that instead of running away when he felt overwhelmed, he would let me know when he needed 'quiet time'. He could stay in his room with the drapes drawn to keep it dark and no one would bother him until he was ready to come out."

"Most children would take advantage of that... to get out of going to school or doing chores or homework," Murdoch put in, trying and failing to envision Johnny spending _any_ time alone in a darkened room, doing absolutely nothing... unless he were injured or ill and at death's door.

"I don't think he did. And it was working. In any case it kept _me_ from having panic attacks whenever he went missing, because he stopped doing that," Luisa chuckled.

"How long do these... er... spells last?" Murdoch asked.

Luisa and Trey exchanged troubled looks. "It varies according to the trigger mechanism," she said. "Sometimes it's only a few seconds... almost unnoticeable unless you know what you're looking for... other times it goes on much longer, which is why Doctor Charcot ruled out petit mal epilepsy. While medical science hasn't formally identified what those triggers might be, he hypothesized that in Jody's case it's his subconscious response to threat whenever he's trapped in a situation beyond his control, whether actual or merely perceived."

Murdoch recalled the many times he'd come upon Johnny sitting or standing motionless, staring at things only he could see, seemingly hearing things only he could hear, oblivious to the presence of anyone else. At such moments it was best to make some sort of noise to get his attention. By now everyone in the household had learned not to touch him or make any vigorous movement near him when he was in this state.

"When you say 'longer'... how _much_ longer? Minutes, hours, days, weeks?"

"In my experience, the longest episode was nearly two hours. The doctor says anything longer than that pushes it into the realm of amnesia."

"I thought amnesia was the result of a head injury?"

"Blunt force trauma to the skull can do that, yes... or a tumor. Doctor Charcot couldn't find any evidence of either of those."

**"****So what you're saying** is that no one really knows for sure what exactly is wrong with the boy?"

"That's about the size of it, Murdo," Trey said.

Luisa continued. "Doctor Charcot was hopeful that in another year or two he'd have a better handle on it but..."

"But?"

"I made the mistake of telling Ed all this when Jody turned twelve. He blew up, saying this was nothing more than quackery. He refused to understand that Jody had a _condition_, not a behavioral problem, and accused me of pandering to a malingerer. Not to belittle the Vincentians, but Ed felt the Jesuits at Saint Ignatius in San Francisco could get a firmer grip on the boy and keep him in hand, so he transferred him there. We didn't see too much of him after that..."

"And did they?"

"To a certain extent, yes... but at the expense of all we'd achieved with Doctor Charcot. There were no quiet times or quiet rooms at Saint Ignatius, so in his first year there these attacks started reoccurring. He began disappearing again. Fortunately, he was able to bring them under control on his own—only a few recorded instances in the next two years... all of them occurring after he'd been home on extended visits such as major holidays or summer hiatus."

"How'd he manage to stay in school? Why wasn't he expelled?"

"When Jody's himself, he's thoughtful and expresses himself eloquently. He's a voracious reader and has near-total recall of everything he sees, reads or hears..."

"That doesn't mean he _understands_ any of it," Murdoch countered, wishing Johnny showed more interest in literature. To his restless son, 'spare moments' meant time to clean and oil a gun or soap a saddle. Scott, on the other hand, snatched every possible opportunity to read, having already made great inroads into the Lancer library. And, Murdoch knew, every night he added to a journal kept in a locked drawer in a bedside table.

"In this case, it does," Luisa was saying. "Jordan's scholastic peccadilloes happened because he was always ten steps ahead of his teachers and the curricula. No matter how much class time he missed, he still managed to catch up and pass his exams with perfect scores. The Jesuits realized they had an extraordinary intellect on their hands and were willing to overlook this attention deficit problem as far as they were able."

"From your use of the past tense am I to understand he's no longer... hasn't been... in school for some time? He's dropped out?"

"On the contrary... he graduated early—at fifteen, actually."

"That seems unusually precocious!"

Louisa explained. "Murdoch, you have absolutely no concept of just how bright this boy is... and by the way, Doctor Charcot classifies Jordan as 'savant', not genius. I'm not quite clear on the distinction. As it turned out, Saint Vincent's had taken him as far as they could anyway, so Saint Ignatius was a logical progression in his education. He passed the entrance exams to the College of California in Oakland and won a full scholarship, but they wouldn't take him until he was eighteen, so the Jesuits arranged for him to enter Capistrano Mission College..."

"Never heard of it!"

"No reason why you should have. It's a very small private liberal arts school near Los Angeles. The plan was to get his core subjects out of the way with a BA degree, then shift to the College of California for post-grad work toward a masters. He _would_ have graduated this year..."

Murdoch sensed her sadness at the lost goal and changed the subject.

"Did the boy never speak to you about being abused?"

"No... and his sisters won't speak of it either. God only knows what they've seen or heard... or been subjected to."

"So he hasn't actually lived at Crown Montero since he was ten?"

"Not really, no. He's been home only for brief visits. He's been living with Ed's brother Elizondo near San Clemente—the college is within commuting distance. Eli's got a modest spread there—vineyards and some orchards... trains horses as a sideline. You've heard of Vista Clemente Winery?"

"Sure... so that's another Montero enterprise?"

Trey nodded negatively. "Nope. Completely unaffiliated. The brothers have been estranged for years. Eli's nothing at all like Ed, personality-wise. In the normal course of events, Eli would've been executor of his brother's estate upon Ed's death, permanent disability or incompetence, but he has his own estate to manage so James is the _de facto _manager and guardian of the minor children. He's been charged with finding a trustworthy individual with the right qualifications to manage Crown Montero until the children come of age."

"How old are the daughters? Who's looking after them?"

"The girls are fifteen, thirteen and eleven, respectively. They were placed in a convent school shortly after the... er... incident..."

"Couldn't their uncle have taken them in?" Murdoch interrupted.

"Eli and his wife already have a houseful... four boys and two girls plus a grandchild—another thing that stuck in Ed's craw something fierce, given his fixation on sons!"

"Murdoch..." Luisa looked him straight in the eye and laid a hand on his. "This event, if true, marked a significant change in Jody's behavior. Trey and I agree it's the pivot point on which this entire drama revolves..."

**"****And that is...?"**

"Until all this came about he'd never exhibited any aggressive tendencies or inclination toward violence..."

"Are you telling me he's dangerous?" Murdoch asked with dismay. _Please God, not another killer in the making!_

Luisa said, with some hesitation, "We believe he _could_ be... if pushed into a corner."

Murdoch shook his his head. "I think I'd better head home as soon as possible. Have you a photograph I could take with me?"

"No. Sorry..." Trey answered.

"A description then?"

"Average height, slight build... light brown skin, light brown hair, light green eyes..."

"Well, hell, Trey! You've just described every white-Mexican halfbreed in California!" Murdoch snorted. "What about identifying marks... birthmarks, scars, tattoos, anything?"

"No birthmarks or tattoos that we know of. Scars... too many to count and most of them not usually visible unless you catch him with his shirt off—the whip marks on his back would be unmistakable. He caught one on the face, too, under the left eye."

"You saw that happen?"

"Unfortunately, yes... I was right there. His sister Martha might know details about other incidents..."

"I don't have time to go all the way to Chula Vista..."

"You don't have to... the girl are right here, at the Convent of Our Lady of Saint Jerome Emiliani in Los Angeles... you can visit them next Sunday if you wish. Luisa can accompany you—she's bosom friends with the head penguin."

"Trey, please!" his wife objected, not appreciating his irreverence.

"But that's five days from now!"

"Sorry, Murdo. Them's the rules. The Pope himself would have to wait until Sunday visiting hours."


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18: _**TRANSITION**

**Lancer Ranch, late morning...** When Jody awoke he experienced a few moments of disorientation at the unfamiliar surroundings, not immediately recollecting where he was or how he'd got there. With the heavy velvet drapes tightly drawn he couldn't tell if it was day or night. It wasn't until he stirred, withdrawing his bruised and aching arms from under the comforter, that he remembered what had occurred in the foaling shed. Not so clear was what happened afterward... being sick, being in the bathhouse in the company of his... brothers, being shepherded up to the big house...

What was he doing lolling in a feather bed when he was supposed to be out at the corrals sorting horses? What he knew for sure was that he had to get out of this house... things were moving way too fast... of all the introductory scenarios he'd concocted and discarded, this wasn't one of them. He had to get up and dressed, _pronto_... except... where were his clothes? Disentangling himself from the sheets and swinging his legs to the side of the bed, he discovered he wasn't wearing a stitch.

In the split second between the tentative knock at the door and its opening, Jody scrambled back under the covers, bunching them up to his chest as a maidservant entered with an armload of clothing. It was that girl from last night—he almost didn't recognize her in a peasant blouse and skirt instead of boys' garb.

"Oh good... you're awake! I've brought you some clothes to wear while yours are in the laundry... just some things Johnny's outgrown... he's put on some weight since he's been here... hope you don't mind."

Jody was a little startled when the girl put the bundle on top of the bureau and came around, holding an uncorked brown glass bottle, to sit on the edge of the bed. _Was it customary in this household for a young lady to enter a strange male's bedroom and sit on the bed to converse... with him still _in_ the bed... and naked?_

Leaning forward slightly, she thrust a small hand toward him. "We never got around to a proper introduction last night, did we? I'm Teresa, Mister Lancer's ward."

He'd already figured this must be the unofficial 'sister' to Scott and Johnny whom Aunt Luisa had mentioned in passing. She was pretty—in a different way from his fine-boned sisters—with a healthy, wholesome face free of artifice and heavy auburn-highlighted hair gathered at the nape of her neck with a velvet ribbon. She had a cool, firm grip with slender fingers roughened just enough to indicate they didn't belong to some idle, pampered princess. This young woman was no stranger to manual labor.

She was still clasping his hand in such a manner that it would be impossible to disengage without being rude. Instead of letting go, she sprinkled a few drops of oily liquid onto his forearm, set the bottle down on the nightstand, and commenced massaging his fingers with gentle strokes, working her way up the hand and arm. Unprepared for such intimacy from a strange woman, Jody tried to ease his arm away.

"Relax. I won't hurt you and this will take away some of the soreness and stiffness. I already had to do Johnny this morning... I only found out at breakfast that the boys had brought you up here last night and I've been been checking on you every hour or so in case you were sick or needed something..."

The combination of warmth from the liniment and Teresa's soft-spoken dialogue were having a soporific effect on Jody. He wanted... felt he needed... to object to the fingers searching out the sore spots and tight musles of his shoulder and neck but words wouldn't come. Instead he closed his eyes and lay still without having said anything at all. Presently she moved to the other side of the bed to do his other arm.

Jody woke up the second time with a forefinger stroking his face.

"Wakey, wakey!" It was Teresa again.

"What time is it?"

"It's two in the afternoon... but Johnny said to let you rest as long as you need to and to let him know whenever you woke up. There's a lavatory at the end of the hall—I had some hot water sent up a few minutes ago. Do you need any assistance in bathing or dressing?"

There was a long enough pause in this aural bombardment for Jody to insert a comment, feeling his face flush. "No thanks."

Teresa laughed. "Don't worry... I wasn't offering... but I can send someone up. Most everyone's still on _siesta_. When you're done come down to the kitchen and Maria Elena'll fix you something to tide you over until suppertime."

"Thanks."

"Listen... I want to thank you for saving my mare and her baby yesterday... I know Penny's old and useless for ranch work, but she was my mother's horse and I learned to ride on her. She means a lot to me... They're both doing fine, in case you're wondering."

Jody decided he liked this girl a lot, even if she talked too much. What he especially liked was the way she was interacting with him without a shred of condescension, as though he were her cultural and ethnic equal... or one of her 'brothers'. He was also aware she was looking at him speculatively, tilting her head to one side.

"For some reason you remind me of Johnny. How odd! You even look alike except his eyes are blue and yours are green and your hair... oh... never mind... I've got to go. I have chores just like everyone else...I'll let Johnny know you're up..." With that the girl removed herself from her perch and left the room.

**Jody surveyed the well-equipped lavatory** with appreciation for this family's concessions to hygiene. The room appeared to have been fashioned from a former dormer bedroom and was tastefully appointed in hues of spring green and Delft blue.

An enormous oval zinc tub occupied a corner platform, with a complicated arrangement of intake and outlet piping disappearing into the wall and floor. As with the bathhouse, a handpump dispensed well water into the tub. In the corner opposite stood a miniature cast iron parlor stove decorated with ceramic tiles and vented to the outside wall. Underneath, a triangular hearth of matching tiles protected the polished wood floor when the stove was in use during the short winter season.

A mahogany commode chair stood in another corner with a ruffled organdy skirt discreetly hiding the receptacle underneath, and woven baskets of reading materials and tissues close at hand. A long mahogany counter along one wall framed a built-in porcelain sink with its own pump lever and drain. Shelving on either side of a large gilt-framed mirror held stacks of towels and washcloths and five rectangular wooden trays, each of which was inset with an oval ceramic disk handpainted with initials... ML, SL, JL and TO. The last one was labeled 'GUEST.' The first three and the last each contained shaving gear; the one marked 'TO' held lady things. Each tray also held a store-bought toothbrush. A large tin of tooth powder sat on the counter next to ceramic dish containing scented soaps. No wonder everyone around here had such nice white teeth! A small ormulu clock gave the time as two-fifteen.

Other accoutrements of the lavatory included a rocking chair, a straightback chair, a cheval mirror and a hand-painted tri-fold Japanese dressing screen. The original bedroom windows let in plenty of light and, with the organdy curtains tied back, a restful view of the ranch and mountains beyond for occupants of either the tub or the commode. As this was on the second floor, privacy wasn't an issue.

As promised, an enormous tin pitcher of very hot water awaited on the counter. Jody dutifully washed up, wetting his hair enough to comb it into reasonably neat submission. As soon as it dried it would spring out again. He wasn't used to wearing it this long. He considered shaving but didn't... the four days' worth of fuzz was hardly visible and his hands were still a little shaky with residual cramping.

Jody returned to the bedroom wrapped in the same quilt he'd worn to the bathroom. The girl hadn't thought to provide a robe but made up for the omission by leaving a pair of moccasins on a chair along with a pair of socks. The clothes proved to be longjohn bottoms cut off above the knees, denim britches and a slightly too large blue cotton workshirt that he quickly gave up trying to tuck in neatly. It was hard enough just working the buttons.

Jody found his way to the kitchen, where the matronly Mexican cook made a fuss over him and asked him what he wanted to eat. He thanked her but declined her offer of food, explaining that his stomach muscles were still sore from yesterday's vomiting session. He was startled when the little woman placed her hands on both sides of his face, murmuring something in Spanish about 'kindness to strangers' and 'angels unaware'. Then she kissed him soundly on both cheeks and made the sign of the cross. He had no idea what all that was about.

Johnny wandered in from the hallway, buckling on his gunbelt. "Didn't Teresa tell you to take it easy today?"

"Yes."

"Well... since you're here, let's go over to the stores shed and get you fitted up. Everyone else got theirs already. You're the last one." As they walked Jody noticed the few Mexicans out and about maintaining a discreet distance, giving him wary looks and surreptitiously making the sign as well. What the hell was going on?

**At the shed,** which was actually a substantial adobe building, Johnny tossed his hat on the counter. "You ain't packin'..." It was more a statement than a query.

"No."

"You should. Man's gotta protect himself out there."

"I do all right."

"That's fine and dandy, but when you're out on the range watchin' over our stock you're gonna hafta carry _somethin'. _You use a rifle?"

"Yeah."

Johnny sauntered over to the padlocked arms locker, opening it and withdrawing a rifle and a box of rounds, placing these on the counter and adding a boot.

"Make sure you keep this with you any time you're on duty."

"Okay."

"I reckon you know how to read and write... go over this list and sing out whatever you need, then write it down on this sign-out sheet."

They were done in fifteen minutes. There was a larger pile of goods on the counter than Jody'd anticipated. He signed his name as 'Joey'... exactly as Johnny had penciled it on the hire list. There were two chairs parked next to the counter. Johnny sat down in one, planting elbows on knees. "Grab a pew. We need to talk 'bout a coupla things... guess maybe I shoulda asked before I hired you..."

Jody sat, adopting the same pose. Green eyes locked on blue ones in a direct manner slightly offputting to one accustomed to inspiring fear and deference—especially in a younger unarmed man. Johnny's voice was soft but his tone commanded attention.

"That bum leg gonna be a problem?"

"No."

"How old are you... sixteen, seventeen?"

"Thereabouts."

"Where ya from?"

"South."

"You ever work roundup before?"

"No."

"Know anything about cows?"

"No."

"You in some kinda trouble?"

"Some."

"Paper out on you?"

"Maybe."

"You know who I am?"

"Yeah."

"You ain't scared?"

"No." Adding as an afterthought, "sir."

"Like I told you Monday... you ain't gotta 'sir' me. I'm a workin' man just like everybody else."

"Sure."

"Just because I'm a Lancer don't mean diddly squat. _Mister Lancer_, now... he's my pa and he calls the tune around here... got that?"

"Got it."

"Don't give away much, do you?"

Jody shrugged.

Johnny sighed, feeling like he was dealing with a stone wall. "Last night you made a big deal about trustin' folks, so now I'm askin' you to trust me. I don't care if you're Injun or Mexican or what... I'm half-Mexican myself. I just need to know that whatever trouble you're in ain't gonna follow you here."

Jody considered how to phrase his response, neither admitting nor denying he was on the run. As far as he knew, his whereabouts were still unknown.

"Don't know."

"Well... if it does, guess who else'll be up the creek? Me, that's who, on account I'm the one hired you."

"Maybe."

"Another thing... and I ain't exactly sure how to bring this up... you mighta noticed most everyone else around here is Mexican, and they're real superstitious folks. There's talk goin' around, since last night... some of the _vaqueros_ reckon you pulled off some kinda miracle, savin' that mare and the filly. They're thinkin' you're some kinda _brujo_ or shaman, dependin' on if they think you're Indian or Mexican. Either way, that makes them real nervous..."

Jody shrugged again. "Can't help that."

"They're already callin' you _El Brujo de las Sombras_... you're _Sombra_ Joey now, the Shadow."

"It'll do."

"Me, I don't hold with ghosts or spirits... _or_ witches, but the thing is... _they_ do. Go around like this all the time, not speakin', not bein' friendly... actin' like you got somethin' to hide or some kinda special power... that's gonna cause trouble. Could you maybe try to be a little more sociable?"

"I suppose."

Johnny gave up. He had more questions but at this rate squeezing out answers would exceed time available. He stood up and so did Jody.

"Let's go pick you out a horse."

"Got one."

Johnny then attempted to dissuade Jody from taking his little red mare to camp with 'she's too delicate'... 'mares only cause trouble'... and such like. But the kid wouldn't budge.

"She came with me, she goes with me."

"You'll still need a remount."

"I guess."

"Come on then... might even be one or two left that're better than crowbait but I can't guarantee it."


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19: _**PINKERTON AND PROFILER**

**Villa Cameron, midday... **Murdoch and Luisa were still lingering in the greatroom when a messenger arrived with a note from Raymond Lemieux from the Pinkerton agency accepting Mister Cameron's kind invitation to join them for luncheon, to be followed by a consultation. Also, Agent Lemieux would be accompanied by a Doctor LaPierre. From the look of pleased surprise on Luisa's face Murdoch deduced the gentleman was known to her. She immediately rushed off to see Amanda regarding revised lunch preparations. With Curtis, Trey and Murdoch took their coffees out to the terrace to enjoy the rest of the fine, fair morning.

"Let's talk about something different... we've discussed the Jody situation to death as it is," Trey suggested. Murdoch readily agreed.

The conversation drifted pleasantly from one topic to another until interrupted by the sounds of two horses coming up the drive. Curtis melted away to greet the visitors and direct Chuck to take their mounts down to the stable. Presently he reappeared around the side of the house with two men just as Amanda exited the kitchen door with a tray containing four glasses and a pitcher of lemonade.

Murdoch was immediately struck by the visitors' likeness not only to each other but to Chuck Curtis—all three were possessed of identical facial features, abundant blue-black curls and café-au-lait complexions. Trey laughed out loud at Murdoch's questioning expression.

"Murdoch... I'd like you to meet Agent Raymond Lemieux and Doctor Paul LaPierre who, as you can see, are not only co-workers but relatives..."

Murdoch stood to shake hands with the two and they all reseated themselves. Agent Lemieux shrugged and smiled. "Simple explanation, Mister Lancer... Paul and I are cousins—our sister-mothers are quadroon, our fathers are Frenchmen. And for the record, Mrs. Curtis here is our Aunt Amanda, so Chuck's our cousin as well. I'm afraid there aren't any Mexican agents to be had—field or otherwise—but I believe you'll find Paul's services eminently suited to our needs at present."

Murdoch struggled to come up with a politically correct response to the pointedly ethnic reference. "I'm... er... sure... considering the circumstances, that is... that Doctor LaPierre will... ah... I didn't know the Pinkertons employed doctors..."

Trey cut in to spare his friend any further embarrassment. "First of all, let's get on a first-name basis here, shall we? Murdoch, Paul isn't an agent or regular employee of Pinkertons... he's a cultural anthropologist and a writer, not a medical doctor."

It was further explained that Doctor LaPierre was a graduate of the College of Humanities and Sciences at the University of Edinburgh and a longtime resident of Southern California. His primary occupation was field researcher and journalist for the Royal Geographic Society of London. Inbetween assignments he moonlighted for the detective agency as a consultant and profiler. Paul would be the one accompanying Murdoch back to the ranch and working 'undercover'.

Murdoch demurred. "Please excuse my ignorance, Ray... but how do you propose to identify someone neither of us has seen? Shouldn't your man be someone who knows Jody on sight?"

"Vee haf our vays!" Paul quipped in an exaggerated Germanic accent.

Ray took over. "Trey and Luisa can't go for obvious reasons... or Curtis. Chuck could... but the kid would probably recognize him first and skedaddle. Another thing is Paul speaks Spanish and Chuck doesn't. We've worked out a tentative cover: Paul's working on a series of articles for the RGS on cultural and ethnic diversity in America's Golden State. This affords him an acceptable platform for one-on-one interviews and examinations of the people he'll be meeting as he follows you on tours of the ranch and the cow camps. Oh... there might an eyebrow or two raised here and there but probably no one will take issue with the presence of a man of color as a guest in your house... especially not one with his title and credentials, which can be found in any issue of _Geographic_. The modern Californian these days holds himself more cosmopolitan and _lassaiz-faire_ in his attitudes than his brethren farther East... and South."

"I don't know about that," Murdoch replied doubtfully. "For one thing, I doubt too many of my workers are familiar with _Geographic_ as most them aren't literate. And some of the older men are set in their ways about... well... you know... certain things."

"Won't bother me," Paul assured him. "They'll get over it."

The three traded ideas back and forth, formulating plans while Paul took notes. Luisa fluttered out to call them all in for luncheon, after which Ray and Paul apologetically took their leave, claiming unfinished business back at the office.

As they were walking out, Paul asked Murdoch when he was planning to return home.

"Next Monday, I suppose... Luisa's taking me to meet Jody's sisters on Sunday."

"That'll be fine... I have some affairs of my own to wrap up before I can leave. How about if I come back up here tomorrow so we can finalize some details?"

Luisa answered for Murdoch. "If you're free, Paul, why don't you come early... around lunchtime, say one o'clock? Curtis is driving Trey down to the cove in the afternoon for water therapy and it wouldn't hurt you either, Murdoch... oh, don't give me that look! You think I haven't noticed you favoring that leg? The sun and salt water and fresh air'll help that cold as well. Trey would enjoy the company. You and Paul can swim and you might even get in a little fishing..."

Paul grinned shyly. "Thanks, Luisa... I'd love to! My family's out of town this week and I haven't enjoyed either of those pastimes in ages"

"In that case, you may as well plan on staying the night! We've plenty of room and everything you need."

Murdoch sighed with frustration but agreed. When he had a plan he sure did hate having to wait—not that he even knew _what_ the plan was... much less _how_ they were going to implement it. It was the waiting that grated on the nerves.


	20. Chapter 20

**• • • • • ****THURSDAY, APRIL 28 • • • • •**

_Chapter 20: _**GONE CAMPING**

**Lancer Ranch, morning...** The Condor remuda moved out after breakfast, driven a few miles ahead of the main crew by Johnny's teenage hires under Vicente's command. Jody's arm and shoulder muscles were still tight and protesting. Fortunately, his little red mare Faridah was trained to neck-rein, which lessened the demand on those muscles. Unfortunately, he hadn't been entirely truthful with Johnny about the gimpy hip not presenting a problem. As recently as two weeks ago he'd been advised to walk wherever possible, to limit his time on horseback to short increments and avoid strenuous activity as long as he was experiencing 'discomfort'. All the calisthenics involved in delivering that foal two nights ago were causing his hip joint to seize up at inconvenient moments—such as dismounting and remounting in answer to nature's summons. He hoped the others had been too busy to notice his clumsiness.

Riding along, Jody realized he'd made a tactical error—in retrospect, he now understood that roundup was the worst possible time he could have chosen to descend on the Lancer domain. He'd naively assumed on hiring day that there would be one big jolly camp attended by the bossman and his sons, that he'd be able to observe them operating as a family unit before making his approach. He couldn't have anticipated five _separate_ camps and the probability that none of the three Lancers would ever appear at any given one at the same time... or, as it happened, that _none_ of them would be available. Scott and Johnny weren't scheduled to ride out until Sunday. And, of course, Jody's purported father—Murdoch Lancer—hadn't yet shown up from wherever he might be lurking... probably on a pleasure jaunt while his sons and minions did all the work. But... as there was nothing to be done about his stalled mission at present, Jody reckoned he might as well go with the flow until a more opportune occasion presented itself down the line.

Jody mulled over Johnny's advice about allaying suspicions by being more open, friendly and communicative. So far he hadn't made any moves in that direction, answering in as few syllables as he could get by with whenever anyone got close enough to speak with him—which wasn't often as he'd contrived to put as much space as possible between himself and everyone else. It did occur to him that by holding himself apart from the rest of the hands, he wouldn't be up on the latest news, nor would he learn any more about the Lancers than he already knew. Though easy camaraderie simply wasn't in his nature, he made an effort to hook up with the youngest and friendliest-looking wrangler—the tall one with the curly dark hair.

**The chuckwagon carrying the cook,** his two assistants and the riders' gear went with the remuda at an easy pace that got them to the site well before suppertime. Their route wasn't the same as the one that had brought them up from Morro Coyo—this one wove eastward through granite and sandstone outcroppings, at one point crossing over a trail identified as the 'Yokut Trace'.

The campsite itself was situated in a grove of tall riveroaks through which flowed a clear pebble-bottomed creek—Cantua Creek—with sandy banks, wide but not very deep, where flashflooding wouldn't present a danger. A few permanent structures stood among the trees—a sturdy one-room wood-framed cabin (euphemistically referred to as the 'North Line Shack'), a large shingle-roofed pavilion with open sides sheltering a number of roughcut trestle tables and benches, and a modest pole corral with an open-sided roofed shelter. The business end of the chuckwagon was backed in under the overhang between a brick firepit and the cabin. Farther away stood half-walled latrines. To Jody and any others who hadn't been there before, the entire assemblage looked laughably like a purpose-built church picnic/tent revival area rather than a cow camp.

On the south side of the chuckwagon, a path had been cleared through the trees from the pavilion to a plank bridge over the creek, wide and stout enough to support horse traffic. The path continued up a gentle rise to a low knoll on which stood two permanent picket lines made of fence rails. From there a fairly lengthy downslope led to the remuda's crescent-shaped grazing grounds.

Elberto Cruz the _cocinero_, known as 'Cochie', pointed out to the wranglers that whereas the cowmen would be bedding down around the perimeter of the pavilion, the horse handlers usually pitched their bedrolls on a hummock some hundred feet uphill from the wagon, where they'd have an unobstructed view of the main camp, the picket lines, and the horse pasture... not to mention being equidistant from food and latrines. Sounded like a fine idea to them.

After seeing the horses settled, Vicente assembled the quintet of wranglers for the purpose of appointing a team leader and assigning shifts—two bodies on duty at night and three during the day, to be rotated periodically. (A last-minute add-on had boosted their complement to five.)He named Jody head wrangler whether he or the rest of the boys liked it or not... which Jody most certainly didn't, not wanting the responsibility—or the visibility. While this was normally a daylight position, Jody'd be nighthawking for the first week while Vicente himself supervised the day crew. Jody thought about arguing his way out of it but decided to bide his time and hope one of the other youngsters would display enough leadership ability in the meantime to merit that honor and change the older man's mind.

Vicente had been greatly impressed with Jody's performance with Barranca and later in the home corrals. Privately, he posited to Cipriano, on the ride up, that he wanted to experiment with Jody's approach to gentle horse management to see if it was workable on a wholesale level. Calmer, more manageable horses translated to less injuries to the men and fewer manhours lost. Cipriano agreed they could give it a try, but only when they weren't actively working the remuda. He also pointed out that it would be wasted instruction as most of them would be leaving afterwards. Vicente mentioned that Señor Johnny had expressed an interest in offering permanent employment to one particular wrangler—that _indio_ boy—and had asked him to ask Cipriano his opinion on the matter.

In the meanwhile the rest of the men—the cowpunchers—had arrived with two supply wagons, including hay and grain, just in time for supper. Jody selected his new friend as his co-rider. He and Ronnie (as Aaron Goldman had announced he wished to be called) held the remuda while the other three boys—Paco Cardoza, Carlos Ecchevarria and Jimmy Hanson—went to establish their sleeping area. Vicente had given them an hour to get that done and have their dinners before coming back to spell Jody and Ronnie so they could do the same.

No official start time had been established for the nighthawks that first evening. Jody set out to explore the creek with Ronnie tagging along out of curiosity—he'd observed the other withdrawing a towel and a bar of soap from his warbag. Some fifty yards upstream the swift current following a bend in the watercourse had hollowed out a sandy-bottomed pool some thirty feet in diameter and four feet deep... not deep enough for real swimming but a perfect place for bathing if one were dedicated enough to that activity not to mind the frigid water.

The younger boy was stunned when his companion happily stripped off all his clothes, waded in and commenced soaping. It was almost dark, it was getting chilly... and _it wasn't even Saturday!_ What he'd been hearing all day about their new team leader must be true... this _meshugah goy_ was possessed! Ronnie was quite frankly enjoying this time away from his momma's strict regimen and hadn't intended to bathe until he absolutely had to—that is, when his shirt rotted off his back or it was time to go home, whichever came first.

Not to be outdone, however, Ronnie followed suit and politely asked if he could borrow the soap—noting with chagrin that his _schmuck_ and _beitzim_ had retreated in horror at contact with the very cold water.

**The cowboys didn't have** many official duties that first evening. Some collected rocks to enlarge campfire pits already in place. Others gathered windfalls for the fires they'd be wanting come nightfall—there was still a bit of spring chill in the air. Mostly they arranged themselves in ethnically segregated cliques—Mexicans in some, whites in others—to smoke and play cards, spin yarns, trade life stories and so forth... enjoying their last hours of idleness before the real work began tomorrow.

In the exchanges of information, opinion and gossip the men returned to the subject of the miracle in the foaling shed, which had accrued embellishments and gained momentum as it passed from mouth to ear. The superstitious among them were convinced some kind of black magic or supernatural ability had been involved. With minds unimpeded by logic or rationality, the believers crossed themselves for protection and muttered incantations against _espíritus malévolos,_ not bothering to hide their nervousness.

While his teammates were scrubbing up in the creek, wrangler Jimmy Hanson had been circulating among the cowboys, soaking up the buzz which he then repeated to Vicente before turning in for the evening: Earlier, the remaining two wranglers, Paco and Carlos, had made the rounds of the Mex groups, boasting how they weren't afraid of that _brujo_—meaning Jody. They'd make short work of him if he tried to put any spells over on _them!_

Jimmy and Vicente were still sitting near the chuckwagon, nursing coffees in tin mugs when Jody and Ronnie showed up to claim their gear. Vicente beckoned them over and quietly informed them of the prevailing mindset. Then he sat back and waited to see how Jody would handle it—if he'd get his back up or come up with a solution on his own. He was gratified when the kid merely thanked him for the heads-up, saying he'd move his bedroll to another spot in the morning, out of sight and far enough away to appease the two Mexicans.

At full dark Jody and Ronnie settled in for their first night of vigilance over the remuda. All they'd be doing... all night long until daybreak... was ride around the herd in circles, going in opposite directions and ensuring none of the animals wandered out of the shallow valley, barely more than a bowl-like depression in the landscape. Ronnie Goldman, son of Green River's pharmacist and a superb horseman, was as quiet and introspective a lad as his partner. Ronnie had no fear of the unexplained or the presumed supernatural and didn't mind at all being paired with the _Sombra_. In fact, he was rather wishing he could do something remarkable to merit acquiring his own distinctive nickname.


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21: _**TALE OF A WOODS COLT**

**La Villa Cameron, mid-afternoon... **The bathing expedition had gotten off to an inglorious start when Luisa bustled into the kitchen bearing an armload of what appeared to be rags of some short. Dumping the pile on the table she lifted one off the top for Murdoch's and Paul's inspection. It looked suspiciously like a red-and-white striped knitted-wool baby's nappy.

"What's that?" Murdoch asked.

"Why it's a bathing costume, Murdo. Isn't it cunning?" Luisa beamed. "I brought these back from Brighton when Trey and I holidayed in the British Isles in 1863.

"Where's the rest of it?"

"What do you mean... the 'rest of it'? This _is_ it."

"You can't be serious... I can't go out in public wearing... that! I'd be laughed off the beach!"

"Oh come now, Murdo. All the gentlemen of the Brighton Swimming Club were wearing them and they seemed so very comfortable."

"Don't tell me there were ladies on that beach! And here I've always heard how stiff-necked the English are!"

"Of course there were women on the beach... not wearing this, naturally."

"No way, Luisa... absolutely no way am I putting that on... Paul... I hope you're with me on this... why, it's indecent!"

Paul snickered. "As it happens I wore one just like it in Saint-Tropez last summer... and if you think that's scandalous, you should've seen what the females were wearing!"

Murdoch snorted. "Well... everyone knows what you Frenchies are like!"

Trey wheeled himself in during this exchange and rolled his eyes at the item Luisa was so daintily still holding up. "For heaven's sake, woman... quit teasing the poor man!"

"Oh... alright, here..." Rooting at the bottom of the pile she came up with something a little less revealing... but not by much—a sort of sleeveless vest attached to a pair of men's underwear that stopped at mid-thigh, also gaily striped. "Spoilsport!" She stuck her tongue out at her husband.

The item was still a bit unseemly for Murdoch's comfort level. "Are you sure...?"

Trey shook his head. "Wearin' one myself... see?" He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a green-and-white striped vest. "Go put those on under your street clothes. Don't worry about gawkers... the cove is secluded and we'll be swimming in a tidal pool... you and Paul can go into the waves if you wish."

In the end Murdoch capitulated and the four set off in the Cameron's surrey with Trey's wheelchair roped to the boot, Trey himself strapped in for safety and fishing poles hanging off the rear. Amanda handed up a heavy wicker basket which Murdoch had to balance on his lap as Paul's was already occupied with the tackle box.

Thirty minutes later they were rolling on hard-packed sand to the cove, protected from public view by a palisade of boulders with no other bathers nearby. Curtis helped Trey off with his clothes before taking off his own to reveal the most heavily muscled body Murdoch'd ever seen... encased in one of Luisa's gaily colored adult diapers! He then carried Trey down into the tidal pool as easily as carrying a child... and Trey wasn't a small man.

Trey told Paul and Murdoch to go around the rocks to where the breakers were, while Curtis tortured him for the next hour, flexing and moving the shrunken legs in hopes of someday getting them to work again. "I wouldn't want you to see me cry!"

As they bobbed in the swells, Murdoch commented he'd been a strong swimmer in his youth—in the freezing lochs of his native Scottish highlands—and had disliked the activity ever since. This, however... this was more like a warm bathtub with wavelets in it and he could feel his bad hip and leg loosening up in the gentle currents. Paul contributed that he'd learned to swim in the bayous of Louisiana. No waves but lots of turtles, snakes and alligators to keep a boy alert!

As well, Murdoch's self-consciousness and anxiety ebbed in the warmth of sun and water, so that Paul's queries about the ranch elicited detailed descriptions of the land the other man loved. Paul's many years of interviewing had taught him to first woo over an unwilling subject, getting him to unwind, before launching a direct inquiry... and he could sense that the time was ripe...

"May I ask you a personal question, Murdoch?"

"You may _ask_... I can't guarantee I'll answer..."

"How do you _really_ feel about this catch colt of yours?"

Thinking that one sure came out of nowhere, Murdoch said, "Now there's a term I haven't heard in a long time..."

"Back home in Louisiana we'd say 'woods colt.' A much kinder word than 'bastard', don't you think? 'Bastard' implies something undesirable and unwanted while the other gives the impression of an unexpected treasure one has stumbled across..."

Murdoch had to mull over that concept for a few moments. "The answer is, I'm not sure. I've only known _of_ him for three days and I haven't met him yet. I can't say that I feel anything at all... I should, probably, but I don't... not yet. Maybe the reality just hasn't taken hold. Does that sound harsh to you?"

"Yes and no," the other said. "I'm also interested in what you think _of_ him... his status as a mixed breed, that is—being as I'm an _octoroon_ myself. My family has been free for three generations, in case you're wondering, and quite well-off."

Murdoch had of course been wondering just that and couldn't think of anything to say. Paul continued.

"Aunt Cecilia was married to Ray's father but my mother was my father's mistress. All three—Amanda, Cecilia and my mother Astrid—were presented at a quadroon ball in New Orleans. I presume you've heard of the custom of _plaçage?_"

"I have." Murdoch wondered where his companion was going with this. "It's the American form of concubinage, isn't it?"

"That's correct, yes. It was most unusual for Cecilia to have married her suitor as well as for Amanda to have ended up marrying a free black man. My mother opted for the traditional, but I was always kept out of sight whenever my father came to visit so we never met face to face.

"When I was still too young to remember, he stopped coming—he'd replaced my mother with a younger mistress, you see. But he was very wealthy and could afford to keep up three households in style. I went to the best private schools and on to university... we, my mother and I, never wanted for anything... but I never _knew_ my father, never knew his name. She wouldn't tell me. I knew he was married and had other children... legal and illegal.

"Then, when I was eighteen—Jordan's age—my mother died unexpectedly. In her effects I found information revealing my father's identity. I wanted to see him, because I'd always wondered what kind of man he was... but I also _didn't_ want to see him because I thought I hated him. I didn't understand how a man could turn his back on his own child. I sent a message that I'd like us to meet..."

Paul stopped and Murdoch couldn't tell if he was choked with emotion or merely waiting for input.

"And did you?"

"Yes, we did. He turned out to be very nice, very kind... but not apologetic for having been absent from my life. That wasn't his role, to regard me as a son... only to provide for my welfare as an adjunct to my mother. Her role was to provide pleasure and companionship, nothing more. He said he was very proud of me, that I was a credit to my mother and his heritage. And even though his obligation to her had ceased, he fully intended to put me through college and in his will... which he did."

"I'm not sure why you're telling me this..."

"Wait... there's more. He told me his legitimate children had always been aware of my existence, and curious about me... and that he could arrange for me to meet them if I so desired. He brought me to his plantation manor house... one of those great gloomy piles with darkies lurking in every corner... yes, Mister Lancer, _slaves_. Just the four children, two sons and two daughters, all older than I—no wives, husbands or children present. They were quite civil if a trifle condescending and faintly embarrassed... I wasn't sure if that was because I was a Negro or a bastard. Probably both.

"We had a lovely tea in the parlor and then I went home. My curiosity was more than satisfied at that point. I knew I'd never be comfortable in their world. That was my second meeting with my father. The third and last one was with my—I guess you could call her my stepmother—my father's second mistress and my siblings in that family... all six of them. Unlike me they had always known who their father was, probably because his wife had passed away by then and he could be more open about his relationship.

"They were very reserved to begin with, until they understood I wasn't getting a larger slice of the pie, so to speak... that we were all from the same side of the blanket. After he left they were quite warm and welcoming. All of them have gone on to college, married well, and prospered in their chosen careers. None of us remained in the South. I wouldn't go so far as to say we're close, but we keep in regular contact and see one another from time to time.

"You were asking why I was telling you my story... when Ray first brought this case to me, I said no, not interested... too close to home. As late as yesterday morning on the ride up to the house I was still thinking 'no'. But when Trey described the situation with your two older sons and the animosity they bore toward you when you were reunited last year..."

"Excuse me... but where was I when you heard that? I only told him the other day..."

"I believe you were in the lavatory... in any case, out of the room. Anyway, the eerie similarities between my family history and yours are too great to ignore. I believe now that my multicultural background combined with my professional expertise make me ideally—in fact uniquely—qualified to help you... and your sons... adapt to this new reality.

"The point I'd like to get across, Murdoch, is that your dissociative feelings... shock, dismay, even rejection... are all perfectly normal and may even engender guilt if you feel no attachment at all. In all probability Jordan is mirroring these emotions, further complicated by curiosity. No one expects either of you to embrace the other wholeheartedly at first. You may experience bonding in time... as with your other sons... or you may not. That, too, would be normal."

"You seem confident we'll find him."

"More likely he'll find us first. You see, Mister Lancer... we've got bait."


	22. Chapter 22

**• • • • • ****FRIDAY, APRIL 29 • • • • •**

_Chapter 22: _**SETTLING IN**

**Condor Camp...** Throughout the night, in their circumnavigation of the valley, Jody and Ronnie would meet up and stop to stretch their legs and talk for a few minutes. Halfway through their shift they changed to fresh horses. In the crepuscular light of predawn, Paco, Carlos and Jimmy showed up to relieve them. The handover went smoothly with no untoward incidents. Jody put the warnings out of his mind.

One of the advantages of nightwatch was first crack at breakfast—when the coffee was freshly made, the biscuits hot and crusty from the Dutch oven, the scrambled eggs at their fluffiest and the fried ham the first juicy slices out of the pan. The two nighthawks scarfed down a quick breakfast before heading for their bedrolls.

Before scouting the rest of the hummock for a suitable alternate resting place, Jody had to deal with a delicate problem in Ronnie, who wanted to relocate his bedroll to whatever vicinity Jody chose. It wasn't at all unusual for a younger teenager to form an attachment to an older one as a role model, but having Ronnie continually at his heel was a complication Jody didn't want or need.

Jody explained that, for reasons of diplomacy if nothing else, it was preferable that Ronnie remain with other three 'junior' wranglers. Jody's bigger concern, which he was hesitant to bring forward because he had no idea how much Ronnie did or didn't know about alternate lifestyles, was how it would appear if he and this younger boy sequestered themselves to sleep apart from the other men. Such an arrangement would immediately engender speculation and rumor that would most certainly follow Aaron Goldman back to his hometown. With no other option, Jody told it like it was and was gratified by the kid's grave response.

"I see what you mean, Joey. _We_ know we're not _feygaleh_, but everyone would think so and they wouldn't respect either one of us." With a little disappointment but no argument, Ronnie spread out his bedroll near the others and promptly went to sleep.

Jody located a secluded spot near a granite outcropping on the other side of the hummock. By undercutting the lower branches of a bay laurel growing against the rocks, he created a bower almost as cozy as a private bedroom. A thick layer of leaf litter, larger twigs picked out, made a comfortable enough buffer between his body and the hard ground though nowhere near as soft as the feather mattress he'd slept on for two nights. The lanceolate leaves of the stunted tree provided an aromatic canopy and its branches would conveniently serve as a support structure over which to stretch a half-shelter of tent canvas in the event of rain.

Sleep didn't immediately come to Jody, rolled up in his blanket with his back snugged against the granite rockface. Nature's fragrances washed over him—the oily scent of bay coupled with the musty forest odor of oaks spreading overhead, a faint whiff of sage from artemesia flourishing not too far away... and horse from the saddle against which rested his head and shoulder.

All in all Jody wasn't too disquieted by current circumstances... aside from the irritation of being temporarily sidetracked from his Lancer fact-finding mission. He'd always enjoyed sleeping in the open when the weather was temperate, and in his estimation working with horses was one of the better occupations. He was clean, dry, comfortable, well-fed, safe and about as content as could be expected.

It was all temporary, of course. In his bones he could feel his roaming coming to an abrupt halt in the not too distant future. He was in a heap of trouble and so far hadn't given much thought as to how he was going to get out of it. The past six months couldn't be undone—eventually he'd have to account for what had happened with Eduardo Montero that fateful night.

Resolutely pushing away these unwelcome thoughts, Jody was without warning assailed with an intense pang of homesickness. Whatever sense of adventure there'd been at the outset of this noble quest for justice, revenge and insight had long since soured... and he was no longer convinced he was doing the right thing. Yet he felt compelled to complete the mission. If nothing else, he wanted to know if any of _them_—the Lancers—shared the mental aberration with which he'd been cursed... which would make it an inheritable trait. As far as he knew, no one on his mother's side was so afflicted.

**And now it was Friday...** the first complete day of operation for the men at Condor. At sunrise two dozen hands from the six northerly ranches, along with their own remudas and chuckwagons, arrived to assist the Condor group in separating out their commingled stock on both sides of the unfenced boundary line. This would consume the better part of a week.

In the meantime, in the temporarily conjoined camps, men enjoyed the camaraderie while they could and entertained themselves by casting aspersions on their respective employers, such as... why didn't they bite the bullet and invest in damned fencing! Then they wouldn't have to be wasting all this time separating their damned livestock! On the other hand, then they'd not only be out of jobs but wouldn't be enjoying this period of interranch cooperation during which the respective chief cooks engaged in friendly rivalry. There'd be barbecue and mulligan stew competitions and best-biscuit and tastiest-pie contests every night.

What everyone understood implicitly was why the members of the West Central Valley Stockmen's Association were so vehemently united in their opposition to the state government's proposal to enact fencing laws... that fences would create more problems than they solved, especially in a region where water resources were limited and unreliable. Landowners whose own resources were meagre and undependable relied on the generosity of neighbors willing to share theirs. Furthermore, watercourses weren't static—they meandered according to rainfall or lack thereof, snowfall in the mountains or lack thereof... and drought conditions. Fences would mean that, in some years, someone's cattle would be doing without. No one wanted this to happen.

As cattle were accumulated during the day, bands of non-Lancer branded cows and calves were sifted out and driven back to their owners' properties. Those cowboys would later return with any Lancer cattle not on their home turf. Steers were turned loose—their time would come in the autumn.

The Condor line riders now split into two groups—the larger contingent staying out on roundup and the smaller group minding the cattle already penned. As of Saturday morning they would again subdivide into a core group still retrieving cattle during the day, minders and nighthawks for the holding pens and the ones doing the hands-on work of cutting, roping, throwing, branding and castrating.

**Jody came fully awake** in early afternoon and lay there for a few minutes, contemplating the unwanted responsibility that had been dropped on him out of the blue... and whether or not he had time for a dip in creek. Deciding against that, he got dressed instead and hoisted his saddle to walk down to the chuckwagon, bypassing Ronnie who was still huddled in his blanket, sleeping soundly. First things first, he dropped off the saddle and visited the latrines, then stopped at the series of washstands set up on a waist-high counter off to the side of the chuckwagon. Checking his face in one of the old streaked mirrors recycled from the _hacienda_, he decided he could put off shaving for another day or two. Next, he went in search of coffee and a bite to eat. One of the things he'd learned yesterday was that food and coffee were available twenty-fours a day as there were no set meal times—shifts were staggered and overlapped to accommodate hands straggling in whenever it was convenient.

The camp was quiet, with a few off-duty individuals eating or playing cards at the trestle tables. Blanketed lumps scattered under the trees surrounding the pavilion marked tonight's nighthawks. The head cook, Cochie, was napping in a hammock strung between a wagon wheel and a tree, but one of the assistants rushed over to attend to _Señor Sombra_. Oh yes... _they_ knew who he was. The assistant would be pleased to cook something... anything at all... and seemed a bit put out when Jody requested only strong black coffee and a couple of cold biscuits with ham.

**Vicente materialized out of nowhere** and plunked himself down on the bench opposite, asking had he got adequate sleep and had there been any problems during the night? Did he have any questions... or, perhaps, suggestions?

Jody'd never been much of team player or had ever been comfortable in a crowd—but, he vowed, if team leader he must be, he'd put forth his best effort. If he was being tested, then yes, he had questions.

For instance, were there any farriers in the crew? Vicente's eyes widened a little and he almost laughed. In all the years he'd been heading up the wranglers at roundup time, not one had ever asked that question until _after_ a crisis had arisen... usually after a shoe problem had been ignored until a remount was critically lamed.

As it happened, there were no _qualified_ blacksmiths, Vicente explained, but one of Cochie's assistants had done enough apprentice smithing to be able to shape a new shoe. Anyone could pound a loose shoe back into place, with a rock if necessary. In the case of a lost shoe, riders just dipped into the 'good enough' barrel and tacked on whatever shoe was deemed close enough. Jody was disconcerted to learn this. Did they not understand how important it was that a shoe be properly fitted to the foot of the animal wearing it... that an ill-fitting shoe adversely affected performance? Vicente said the supply wagon did carry a miniature portable anvil, forge and bellows—however, that equipment was rarely offloaded. Jody pointed to an area on the other side of the path from the chuckwagon, respectfully requesting that the equipment be set up there... _before_ a need arose.

Who inspected the horses as they were brought in, Jody wanted to know. Vicente blinked. Inspected? Why, no one... the rider might mention it if there was anything amiss with his mount. Well then, the newly-minted head wrangler inquired, would the _segundo_ have any problem with every horse being subjected to a quick inspection for injuries, galls and sores, and loose or thrown shoes _before_ being released to the remuda? Vicente indicated he did not, but what about horses being brought in after dark? Miner's lights, at least two, Jody said, if there were any to spare, handy to the picket rails at the top of the knoll. If the _vaqueros_ would be kind enough, after dark, to leave returned horses there, either of the nighthawks would perform the inspection on his next pass.

Jody wanted permission to teach the others how to speak and walk or ride softly, keeping all movements slow and deliberate, so that they could insinuate themselves among the horses without inciting them to nip, kick or shy away—the object was getting the animals to _like_ and _trust_ their handlers. At home anyone could always tell when and where _he_ was in one of the corrals because the horses clustered around him and followed him as if on leads. This Vicente agreed to as long as it didn't slow them down too greatly in responding to riders' requests.

At some point in the conversation, they'd switched over to English without realizing it. Vicente had got over his nerves with this young man and was finding his high-flying notions highly entertaining—good ideas, to be sure... just not all that practical in a cow camp.

**When asked in exactly what manner** those two picket rails at the top of the knoll were employed, Vicente said that the _vaqueros_ generally had their morning mounts brought up beforehand and picketed overnight. Whenever picking up a remount, a man would call for the next horse he wanted to be brought up. Jody didn't like that idea at all, contending that horses tied up like that for hours got bored and restless and started bickering with their neighbors. Their muscles stiffened up, as did their dispositions. Plus they had to be frequently checked and hand-watered with buckets. He preferred that all the remounts remain in the pasture so they could move around at will, and be brought up in the morning as called for. They'd be happier there.

Vicente spoke slowly. "But in the early morning, when in the dark comes a _vaquero_, ask you to find the horse he want, what then, eh?"

What about the pole corral behind the line shack, Jody insisted. It had a water trough, a grain trough and a hay rack. Wouldn't take much to enlarge it enough to accommodate twenty horses. Wasn't that what it was designed for to begin with? Well... yes it was, Vicente admitted... until the bright soul who came up with the idea realized that just one night's accumulation of manure that close to the chuckwagon...

Jody argued that the stink issue could be easily resolved by dismantling the corral and removing it to the picket area on the knoll. The early shift horses could be set loose in there. Once dawn broke, the wranglers could start bringing the horses up from the remuda, one at a time on demand.

In truth, Vicente was enjoying and appreciating this unprecedented show of initiative, so he struggled to keep a straight face as he queried how the _Sombra_ proposed to locate a particular horse by name out of the hundred or so in the pasture? Jody extracted a slim leatherbound notebook from his shirt pocket and slid it across the tabletop to him. The _segundo_ picked it up and opened it to the first page... and the next page... and the next. They were all there, neatly listed—all one hundred twenty-three horses in the remuda, including the privately-owned ones... each animal's name, coat color, markings, brand, and owner or assigned rider.

"What means this?"

"Go ahead... test me on this... pick a name at random."

"You are not serious!" At that point Vicente had to laugh... the kid was so earnest! But he was willing to go along with the joke. He chose a horse's name from somewhere in the middle of the book... and Jody repeated all the relevant information for that entry without hesitation. He chose another... and another. The boy was spot on, every time.

Vicente had to struggle to refrain from making the sign... if this inhuman ability to memorize huge blocks of information frightened even him, a comparatively enlightened individual, the majority of the hands would no doubt view it as the work of the devil. They would desert the camps in droves.

"I am amazed, _Sombra_... truly amazed. But you must put this book away and never show it to anyone else. Do not speak of it. In fact, it would be better if it did not exist." Spoken bluntly.

**For too long a minute,** Jody stared with expressionless eyes at the _segundo_. Then he stood up abruptly and limped over to the kitchen firepit, throwing the book into the center of the coals.

Vicente held his breath until the _Sombra_ returned to the table but not reseating himself. He apologized to Joey for his having gone to all that trouble only to have to discard it.

"No trouble. It's all up here." Jody pointed to his head. Vicente shivered.

"Do you have any special orders for me today, _Señor_? If not..." Jody paused.

"There is something..." Vicente began hesitantly. "Paco Cardoza and Carlos Ecchevarria... they are very good with horses... last year they work for us. These two, they are very big and strong but not so very smart, eh? They are not liking that I have put a _mestizo_ above them. They are not bad boys, not really, but can be lazy... you will have to make clear who is leader, yes? It will take more than words, _Sombra_... you understand what I am saying?"

Jody understood all too well. In order to earn their respect and maintain any control, it might be necessary to exert his authority physically. And that presented a problem. Cardoza and Ecchevarria weren't much older than him... or taller, but both possessed the compact, deceptively muscular physiques of lifelong manual laborers. Although Jody had done his share of scrapping and emerging victorious at least half the time, at the moment he wasn't in the fittest shape he'd ever been. He seriously doubted he could take on either one of them and prevail. He said as much to Vicente.

Vicente gave him a long, measured look. "Before you go..."

"Yes?"

Vicente pointed to Jody's hip. "Let Cochie see to that. He has something that will help."

Jody backed away, his face set. "Don't need anything. I'm fine."

"I am not blind, _Sombra._ You see Cochie. That is an order."

The wrangler didn't have far to go. He'd backed right into the cook, who'd slipped out of his hammock and was standing behind him. Busted. He had no choice but to follow the portly man into the confines of the chuckwagon. At Cochie's instruction, he unbuttoned his pants, dropping the waistband far enough to expose the injured hip where Montero's bullet had not only chewed through soft tissue but shattered a good-sized wedge of iliac crest. The incision required to retrieve and remove bone fragments had resulted in a ragged eight-inch scar. The surface layers had long since closed but muscles and tendons were still healing as neural pathways rebuilt themselves.

Cochie rummaged in his medical supplies locker and produced a green blown-glass apothecary jar with a red tin lid. He unscrewed the cap to reveal the contents—an evilly-reeking yellow unguent that looked like lanolin mixed with honey. Scooping up two two fingers' worth, he began vigorously massaging it into the damaged hip. The resultant fire was completely unexpected, bringing real tears to Jody's eyes. His ears burned. His nose ran. He clenched his teeth to keep from making a sound, but he must have grunted, alerting Cochie to his discomfort.

The cook chuckled. "He burn like _fuegos del infierno_, eh?"

"What's in that?" Jody managed to croak, fingernails digging into the wood of the wagon's side panel to keep himself from squirming. Fires of hell indeed!

"_Lanolina, aceite de zorrillo, pimienta de chile pequin, alcanfor y mentol_... first make hot, then make cold. But soon feel better."

In minutes what had first seemed like burning coals had transformed itself into a block of ice. Now Jody knew what a calf felt like when the branding iron hit him. Cochie instructed him to come by two or three times a day—or whenever he could—for reapplication. And to be very, _very_ careful to not let his hands come in contact with the treated skin... he definitely did not want to get even a _hint_ of this substance near eyes, nose or mouth... or any other sensitive part of his anatomy.

Trudging up the knoll toward the picket rails and wiping the sweat off his forehead with a shirtsleeve, Jody had to admit that, while it didn't cure the limp, it certainly took his mind off the pervasive ache. And maybe the skunky smell would keep the mosquitos at bay.

**Cochie watched him go,** thinking back to the day the _patrón_ had been shot... and how very long it had taken the man to recover. He knew a bullet wound when he saw one, even one that been mostly obliterated by subsequent surgery. He wondered if this young one had been advised by his doctor—as the _patrón_ had been—that he would probably never again walk firmly, or without pain. What an odd coincidence that this _joven_ who looked so much like the _patron's_ son had been shot in the same place on the same side of the body. Or perhaps it was not so much a coincidence as a sign, a portent. The idea sent a shudder down his spine.


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter 23: _**EVERYTHING CHANGES**

**La Villa Cameron, morning... **Murdoch wallowed in bed on yet another sunstruck morning, resisting the need to get up and go to the lavatory, too comfortable to move. He was almost wishing he lived closer to the coast so that he could swim in the sea every day... but then he'd have to give up Lancer and that would never happen. He realized with relief that the incipient head cold had retreated, leaving no residual symptoms. A small mercy but a welcome one.

Yesterday he and Paul had returned from the beachfront to lay on quilts on the white sand surrounding the tidal pool, soaking up the slanted afternoon rays of the sun. Curtis had deposited Trey on another quilt and vigorously massaged the withered legs with strong liniment. Then Curtis had delved into the picnic basket and come up with bottles of ale chilled in chunks of ice. They never did get around to fishing. A leisurely trot up the hillside brought the surrey back to the house at dusk, just in time for the men to bathe, dress and enjoy a hearty, convivial dinner before retiring early, exhausted.

Now it was morning again and came a knock on the door, Amanda's voice on the other side informing Murdoch breakfast would be served in fifteen minutes on the terrace. Paul was already up and dressed.

As he shaved, Murdoch gave some thought to Paul LaPierre, recognizing there a prime resource of sound counsel. Obviously Trey and Luisa were already acquainted with Paul's and Ray's backgrounds and Trey must have already had Paul in mind when arranging the meeting between Murdoch and the Pinkerton agent. It was too much of a coincidence to be otherwise. Murdoch had always considered himself a capable man, well able to address his own problems... but this one, he had to admit, was beyond his capacities... there were too many intangible ramifications. And now he was intrigued by this 'bait' business, on which Paul had declined to elaborate.

Amanda waved him through the kitchen out to the terrace, where Luisa and Paul were already seated. Behind them stood a tall, spare figure balancing a naked child on a hip and looking out toward the water.

**Luisa greeted him. **"Good morning, Murdoch. Trey will be out presently but we're not waiting on him." The normally tidy woman seemed a tad disheveled and a hair or two out of sorts. Her voice seemed a bit strained as well.

"Good morning to you, too, Luisa... Paul... and...?"

The individual turned around then and what Murdoch had taken to be a skinny cowboy in boots, denims and a chambray work shirt revealed itself to be a young woman with pale grey eyes and the shortest hair he'd ever seen on a female.

"Cat... I'd like you to meet Murdoch Lancer... Murdo, this is Trey's niece Catriona and her son Joshua."

The sleeves of her pale blue shirt were rolled up above her elbows. Deeply tanned forearms matched an angular face framed by white blonde hair cropped shorter than most men's. None of the usual womanly protrusions or luscious feminine curves here, no aura of daintiness or delicacy. And no wedding ring.

"Miss... er, Catriona... pleased to meet you..." He gave a slight bow. The girl started to extend her free hand then realized it was holding a slice of buttered and jellied toast. Depositing the child on the flagstones at her feet, she handed him the toast and wiped jelly off her fingers onto her pants before reaching out once more. She had strong, capable hands and a firm, if sticky, grip.

"I go by 'Cat', Mister Lancer. Paul and Luisa already told me about you and your family... and your connection here." She had a husky contralto voice and a straightforward air the rancher found appealing though she was no great beauty. Not graced with the sort of looks that turned heads, she was nontheless possessed of an oddly exotic elegance that would.

_Where does this one fit in?_ The cast of characters in this comedy of errors was multiplying like bunnies...

**"****You remember Trey's sister Lexi**, don't you, Murdo?" Luisa asked.

"I do, yes." He vaguely recalled having met—at some fête or another—Trey's younger sister Alexandra and her husband, a Norwegian sea captain.

Paul stood to pull out a chair for the girl, who then sat. The men did likewise, Murdoch glancing at the child munching happily on the toast... a pretty little boy with bright, extraordinarily blue eyes, dark curly hair and a complexion several shades darker than his mother.

Murdoch wasn't sure he approved of the girl's unusual hair style. She caught him looking and laughed... not a girlish titter but an honest from-the-diaphragm laugh, and raked her fingers through what was left of her hair. "I know... it looks like the north end of a southbound sheep after shearing... but it it sure is comfortable and I don't have to bother with all those pins!"

Murdoch decided he liked it after all... and the young woman's frank manner. Her openness reminded him of his ward Teresa. "And how is your mother keeping these days?" he inquired politely. The little boy toddled over to him and held out his arms, beseeching "Up! Up!" Murdoch obligingly picked him up and settled him on one knee.

"Mama's doin' well, happy... she's Mrs. Montero now."

"I... er... no, I hadn't heard..." Confused, Murdoch turned to Luisa for assistance. Neither she nor Paul were doing a good job of hiding their amusement. Cat herself came to the rescue.

"My father was lost at sea when I was four years old. I don't remember him. Mama went to work as Elizondo and Serafina Montero's housekeeper. Fina died in childbirth leaving poor old Eli with four little boys under the age of ten. After a rather indecently short period of mourning, he and Mama married."

Obviously there was an undercurrent here that Murdoch just wasn't seeing...

The girl cut her eyes sideways at the child, then at Luisa. "Haven't you told him?"

"Well... no... we weren't expecting you this soon..." Luisa's and Paul's eyes met, shifted to the little boy in Murdoch's lap, back up to him.

"Told me what, Luisa?" Murdoch raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you've got more surprises up your sleeve... this old man's had enough for one week!" he grumbled. "I'm not sure I'd survive another one!"

He stopped short at the expectant expressions on the others' faces. Clearly they were awaiting some sort of moment of illumination on his part... something to do with this child... and it wasn't long in coming as he looked down to meet the boy's unfaltering gaze...

**John Madrid Lancer's **most distinguishing feature was the piercing blueness of his eyes—a radiant lapis lazuli such as Murdoch had only ever seen on members of his family... his own father, a great-uncle, various cousins. _Was it remotely possible...?_

Of course it was. John wasn't yet comfortable enough with his father to share details of his pre-Lancer existence, but he _had_ discussed certain elements with his brother. And Scott had repeated some of it out of pity for the father who was being denied the privileges of a close relationship. Aside from what he'd witnessed in the past nine months, Murdoch knew, for instance, that John had been sexually active from a very young age. Women fell all over him—and under him—with amazing regularity. No doubt that beyond a trail of broken hearts he'd in all probability left behind more than one such memento of his dalliances.

Then Murdoch knew. Looking into those blue eyes in a nut-brown face, he felt it in his soul. This little boy was his grandson. The enormity of it hit him like a ton of bricks. His heart lurched in his chest and he felt faint, clutching the boy in his lap even tighter, afraid he'd drop him. The child cried out and squirmed to get away, reaching for his mother who immediately stood, poised to scoop away her baby. Murdoch waved her back.

"No... no! Please... let me hold him for a while."

Luisa swiftly buttered another piece of toast, slathering it with homemade plum jelly and passing it to the child. Once in possession, the little boy relaxed again into Murdoch's arms, contentedly munching his prize and smearing purple jam all over Murdoch's clean white shirt. The rancher's thoughts were windmilling in all directions. He would never have pegged this Cat as Johnny's type. She seemed a sensible young woman, not one to be charmed out of her bloomers by a handsome, silver-tongued rascal...

"Does he... er... know about Joshua?"

Cat looked askance. "Well... yes, of course. He was with me when Josh was born..."

Murdoch felt a rising tide of anger. How could Johnny have shut him out of something this important? Was it payback for twenty fatherless years? Even though Johnny claimed to now understand the reason, that he'd come to believe Murdoch's side... did he really, deep inside, yet nurture a desire to punish his father?

**"****I don't know what to say,"** Murdoch finally croaked. He buried his face in the mop of curls, afraid he'd be unable to contain his emotion in front of the women. A grandson!

When he raised his head it was to find Luisa regarding him with a wry grin. "I expected you'd be pleased, Murdoch... but..."

"How old is he?"

"Eighteen months."

Murdoch did some fast math—Johnny would have been nineteen when he fathered this boy. Long before he'd been located and lured to Lancer.

"I don't know how I didn't see it right away... he's the spitting image of his father. Believe me, that son of mine's going to get a sizeable piece of my mind when I get home."

This time the look on the other three faces was sheer puzzlement. Finally Cat said, "Excuse me?"

Luisa asked, "What are you talking about, Murdoch? You haven't even met him yet."

"What are _you_ talking about? He looks exactly like John did at that age."

An odd expression came over both women's faces and Murdoch could almost see the bubbles of laughter straining to escape their throats. "What's so funny?" he demanded.

"Mister Lancer..." Cat said with a rueful grin. "I'm afraid I've never had the pleasure of _that_ close an encounter with the notorious Johnny Madrid. From what I've heard of him, however, I'm sure it would have been a memorable occasion."

"Catriona!" Luisa admonished, choking.

"Then I'm afraid **_I_** don't understand," Murdoch said, preparing for massive disappointment. "Is or isn't this child Johnny's son?"

The blonde-headed girl started laughing, with Luisa and Paul joining in a few seconds later. Presently Luisa snatched back her handkerchief to dab at her eyes and not so daintily blow her nose.

"Oh Murdoch! Don't you get it... Joshua is _Jordan's_ son!"

"But he couldn't... I mean..." the rancher sputtered, "He's just a kid himself... that means he would have... he would have been..." He felt his face turn red.


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24: _**JOHNNY'S LITTLE PROBLEM**

**Lancer Ranch, lunchtime... **'HOME TUE EVE STAGE WITH GUEST.' Teresa read the telegram out loud for the third time.

"I believe we all have it memorized by now, Teresa," Scott remarked wearily, knifing his pork chop into precise bite-size pieces, which annoyed the hell out of his brother, who was toying with his. "Johnny... quit playing with your food."

"What're you? Lunch police?"

"If she reads it one more time I'll make her eat it," Jelly warned, vigorously scattering the cornbread crumbs in his beard onto the tablecloth and aggravating Scott who set great store by appropriate dining etiquette.

"I wish he were here right now! I hate that it'll be just Jelly and me to welcome him home!" Teresa exclaimed, picking at her mashed potatoes and pouting at Scott whom she felt was behaving like a pompous ass.

Scott pointed his fork at Teresa rather rudely, "You're acting as if he's been on an ocean voyage around the world... it's been less than a week! Grow up."

"I wish he'd stay gone longer," Johnny murmured morosely, chasing green peas around on his plate with a knife. He despised English peas. Or any other peas for that matter. And he was sick and tired of being bossed around by Scott... and Teresa, who was the bossiest female he'd ever known!

"If you can't consume your meal like a civilized person, kindly leave the table," Scott sniped.

"Who appointed you king?" Johnny snarked back.

"Nobody. But _our father_ put _me_ in charge..."

The four were gathered at one end of the formal dining room table because Maria Elena and one of her helpers were using the big kitchen table to roll out dumpling dough and pie crusts. All four were cranky and out of sorts with one another under the weight of the responsibility Murdoch had heaped on them!

Jelly was nervous about having been made responsible for seeing the right supplies were sent out to the right camps in a timely manner in the days to come. He'd never before been entrusted with that much responsibility.

Teresa was wound up for another reason... Maria Elena had been making noises about retiring and handing over to her understudy _all_ the keys to the castle. Teresa didn't want to be châtelaine... she wanted to go away to school and become a doctor!

Scott was irritable, knowing that after Maria Elena's excellent farewell lunch he'd be spending several hours in the saddle... and probably chowing down on blasted _frijoles_ for supper that night and for several weeks thereafter. He mortally hated those refried speckled beans, particularly when cooked to an unpalatable mush and served with rice. Worst gas he'd ever had in his life... worse than the watery cabbage soup he'd been served as a prisoner of war.

Johnny was fed up with having been stuck with paperwork for three days. Scott was relentless. Make a list of this. Inventory that. Make lists for these other things. He wanted to be, _needed _to be, outdoors in the fresh air... but even if he were free to do so he had a little problem which precluded that...

**Just after supper** yesterday, John Madrid Lancer had sneaked out—intent on avoiding his brother in the great room enjoying his postprandial brandy and newspaper—and detoured by the barn to grab a halter and lead before heading for the paddock Barranca shared with Charlemagne. Barranca wasn't in a cooperative mood and led Johnny a merry chase before turning deceptively agreeable and allowing himself to be caught.

Johnny's plan was for a short romp up the hillside and back again... just to get the itch out of his bones. With luck Scott wouldn't even notice he'd gone missing. But Lady Luck had other ideas...

No sooner had Johnny's backside hit the animal's bare back than Barranca went sideways on him, pretending he didn't know his rider and had never been ridden before in his life. Johnny was an excellent rider and probably wouldn't have come off had he been expecting this... but he wasn't. Nor was he expecting to land flat on his back on the _only_ rock of any size within fifty feet. A big pointy rock that slammed all the air out of his lungs. He thought for sure he was going to black out from both pain and lack of oxygen but he didn't. As he lay there stunned, the palomino ambled up and nudged him as if to say 'what are you doing down there?'

There was no one else around to witness Johnny's ignominy... or come to his aid, so he continued to lay there in the dew-dampened grass until his heartbeat slowed down to somewhere near normal and the flashing lights in his head started to recede. Moving as slowly as an old cowpoke with piles, pausing to toss dinner, he released the palomino and hobbled back to the house. The kitchen was unoccupied for a change. The door to the cellar was open and he could hear Maria Elena down there talking with Teresa.

Johnny knew where they hid the key to the locked medical cabinet. Filching a small bottle of laudanum, he relocked the cabinet and replaced the key. The staircase looked a thousand miles long but he got back upstairs somehow and into his room with no one the wiser. In the privacy of his bedroom he filled a water glass from the pitcher on the dresser, adding as many drops of the drug as the label advised 'to relieve pain'... and a few more for good measure.

Grass-stained clothing went into his laundry hamper. In the time it took him to strip he could hardly stand up and his hands were shaking badly. Then he crawled into bed and hoped against hope he hadn't broken a rib or too seriously injured something on the inside. Maybe if he lay very still whatever it was sending stabbing pains through his back and shoulders would calm down after a while. He hadn't even bothered to try using a hand mirror to view his back in the big mirror, knowing he had to be sporting an eggplant-purple bruise of gargantuan proportions.

Johnny hoped a lot of other things, too... that no one would notice the missing bottle, that there was enough drug in it to get him through that night and through breakfast. That he could manufacture a plausible excuse to ride on the supply wagon instead of horseback on the way to camp tomorrow... that... well... one thing at a time: get through breakfast without being found out. Then... if he could just sit at the desk doing paperwork and not moving around too much until it was time to go...

**Again, luck wasn't with him** after a restless, sleepless, pain-wracked night. He'd kept his secret through the morning meal, everyone else too caught up in their plans for the day to notice him sitting stiffly and being unduly quiet, or eating very little. And no sooner had he got settled at Murdoch's desk than Scott asked him to go check on something in the stores shed... Maria Elena needed something brought up from the cellar... and Teresa wanted help with something else... all of which required movement—bending, squatting, lifting, carrying. Every movement was pure agony, his back throbbing with such intensity he broke out in a sweat. He'd brought the laudanum downstairs and hidden it in the back of a desk drawer. Every chance he got he carried his coffee cup into Murdoch's study and added just enough drops to keep himself going a little longer.

By lunchtime Johnny was feeling a little fuzzy around the edges, nauseous, jittery... and in too much pain to hang on much longer without it showing. But he was putting on as good a show as he could manage.

Teresa was the first one to notice something out of kilter, especially when Scott made another cutting remark and Johnny failed to respond to it. She carefully laid down her cutlery and narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded.

"Nothin'. Leave me alone."

This wasn't like Johnny. He was never intentionally rude to her.

She stood up and folded her arms across her bosom. "John Lancer. If you're sick don't think for a minute you're riding out of here today!"

"I said I'm fine. I'm just tired. In fact..."

Johnny stood up too quickly, had to balance himself with one hand on the table and the other on the back of his chair. "Excuse me." He stalked from the dining room through the flagstoned hallway toward his objective—the lavatory extension tacked on to the rear of the kitchen. Once out of sight of the lunch club, he picked up the pace as the sour bile rose in his throat, hoping he'd make it in time...

**Teresa turned to Scott.** "Can't you see there's something the matter with him? Can't you make him own up?"

Scott snapped. "No, Teresa. I can't make him _own up_ or anything else. He's been worse than useless this morning... hasn't finished a damned thing I've asked him to do. Just leave him alone as he asks. Maybe he's just deciding ranch work isn't his cup of tea after all." He threw his napkin down in exasperation. "We've a lot of work to do and he's not helping... literally... he's not helping anyone do anything. He'd better shape up before Murdoch gets home!"

Teresa continued looking at him with an injured expression. Finally he stood up himself and sighed. "All right. I'll go and try to get him to talk to me..."

**The door to the lavatory** wasn't closed all the way so Scott pushed it open. Johnny was hunched over the galvanized sink, puking. Scott just stood there until he was done. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"I thought we had an agreement about knockin' on doors, brother." Johnny's face was gray with strain.

"And I thought we had an agreement about you not lying about it when you're hurt... brother," Scott retorted softly, closing the door behind him. "You gonna tell me about it or what?"

Johnny tried to shrug and grimaced. The jig was up and he knew it. He was starting to get the shakes again and feeling light-headed, fingers of both hands clenched against the rim of the sink. "Got throwed yesterday and busted my back."

"Let me see." Scott advanced, prying his brother's shirt up far enough to reveal a livid bruise radiating from a point to the left of the spine and just below the floating rib. "Stand up straight... let's get your shirt off."

Johnny straightened up as far as he was able, yielding to Scott's ministrations as he undid the buttons and slid the shirt off, allowing it to fall to the floor just as Johnny turned again to the sink. Another paroxysm of vomiting ensued. He worked the pump handle, rinsing his mouth and splashing cold water in his face. Scott handed him a towel.

"Guess I wasn't done yet."

"Sorry I yelled at you. Didn't know," Scott murmured, pumping more water to flush the mess down the drain.

"S'okay... didn't want you to."

"But why? No one would expect you to work in this condition..."

"_I_ expect me to work..." Johnny hissed, craning his head around to face Scott. "You know how Murdoch's been stressin' how important this is... this is the most responsibility he's expected from us... from _me_... since we got here, and I don't wanna screw up."

"You're wrong... the most important thing he expected from you, you did right at the get-go—saving the ranch... and you took a bullet in the back for it. I'd say you earned your keep and then some right then and there. He'd say it too, were he here. Teresa's right... you're not going anywhere..."

"Gotta..."

"No 'gotta'... I'll lock you in your room if I must. If you won't swear to me on your honor that you'll stay put, then I'll have to stay here and keep an eye on you... and then he'll _really_ have something to bellow about because that'll be two pairs of hands not working. You get my drift?"

Johnny loosened his hold on the sink, held up one hand in defeat... and relief. He was hurting so bad right then all he could think of was falling into bed and lying very, very still. "I'll stay put, I promise. You go on and do what you need to."

There was a tentative knock on the door.

"Scott? Johnny? You okay in there?" It was Teresa.

"Come on in," Scott said.

"No... wait..." Johnny gasped. He didn't want Teresa seeing him like this, wild-eyed and speckled with regurgitated breakfast.

Too late. The girl opened the door and gasped. Jelly was right behind her.

**Scott kept his voice calm.** "John's had a little accident... probably nothing to worry about but it wouldn't hurt to have Sam come out and take a look at him. Jelly... would you get one of the boys to ride to town? Tell the supply wagon to go ahead and move out. I'll catch up later. Teresa... I'm going to take Johnny upstairs in a few minutes, soon's we're done here. We'll be needing cold compresses, some hot tea and some laudanum, if you'd take care of that. Send one of the girls down to the icehouse with a bucket."

The two whirled without further argument, disappearing down the hallway.

"Great!" Johnny said in disgust. "Now I'll have both of them buzzin' over me every minute... like flies on shit!"

"Can't be helped," Scott grinned—a private joke between them, those being the first words Scott had ever spoken to him, before they'd found out they were brothers. "No way we could have kept it from her. Or Jelly. Come on now, let's get you cleaned up."

For someone as angry and caustic as he'd been ten minutes ago, Scott was tenderly solicitous with his brother... wetting a towel and wiping off his face, arms and torso, making him rinse his mouth out again, pretending the wet on Johnny's face was all washwater and not tears of pure pain.

**They made it up the staircase** one slow step at a time, Johnny with a death grip on the rail and Scott's strong hand under his arm. Someone—Maria Elena or Teresa—had preceded them into the bedroom and turned down the bed. Johnny offered no resistance when Scott had him sit on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and socks, or when he had to stand up again so his brother could unbuckle his belt and get his pants off... the latter thankful that the former wasn't today wearing those Mexican trousers with endless rows of buttons on the outseams. Johnny rolled over onto his side and curled up in a fetal position while Scott pulled the sheet up to his waist, his brother having again neglected to don undergarments.

Teresa reappeared with a stack of towels and the laudanum, Maria Elena with a carafe of hot tea on a tray and Jelly with the ice. Johnny didn't want to, but Scott made him raise up on one elbow and drink the drug-laced tea.

"Are you sure it's not a broken rib?" Teresa asked doubtfully when Johnny had his head down again. "Is it even possible to break one back there, that close to the spine?"

"I don't know," Scott admitted. "Careful with that compress... don't put any pressure on it."

While sitting awkwardly on the other side of the bed, Teresa had assembled the first ice compress and was applying it gently, drawing a couple of piteous moans from the patient.

"I'll stay with him until Sam gets here. You can go," she offered Scott.

"No... I'll stay for a while. I'm nothing more than a figurehead anyway, and the hands all know it. They don't really need me. Besides, he and I need to talk."

"But..." Teresa objected.

"Out!" Scott insisted. "We need some brother time."

**An hour and a half passed** before Doctor Sam Jenkins arrived, getting the lowdown from Teresa in the kitchen and shaking his head dolefully. "As often as I'm called out here, Murdoch ought to put me on retainer. Well... at least it's not a bullet this time."

After inspecting his patient, Doc Sam drew Scott and Teresa out into the hallway. "The good news is that his vital signs all look good. I need to be able to palpate the area to confirm a broken rib but he's not having it. He seems unusually disoriented but is still in a lot of pain... just how much laudanum has he already had?"

Teresa told him, adding, "but it's possible he may have helped himself to more than we know about... I'm pretty sure we had four flasks in the cabinet but I found only three..."

Doctor Sam stroked his chin. "Here's a good opportunity to see what you've learned, young lady, considering the overall aspect of the patient... how he's acting... and the apparent nature of the injury. What might be his primary complaint, at the moment?"

The girl's forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Ah... traumatic muscle spasm? Of the... of the _latissimus dorsi..._ and possible internal injury?"

"Very good," the doctor encouraged. "Assuming our patient has already ingested the maximum safe dosage of laudanum and should be experiencing some relief but isn't, what should we do next?"

Scott had been looking from one to the other in confusion. Why were these two discussing his brother as if he were a laboratory guinea pig? He was about to object when Teresa launched her response with a slight note of hesitancy.

"We could apply a topical analgesic to the area to block pain long enough to do an exploratory..."

"Yes, yes... do go on."

"But that would involve pressure and that in itself would be painful..."

"Excellent. How do you propose we sedate the patient long enough to do these things?"

"Chloroform?" Teresa's voice was uncertain. "First we knock him out, then apply the analgesic, then you can determine if the rib's broken?"

"Exactly! Well done, my girl! That's exactly what we'll do..."

"What do you mean, 'we', Doc?" Scott growled.

"I mean we need all the help we can get—myself and the future Doctor O'Brian here. Scott, you go find Jelly and tell him to come up here with two of the biggest, strongest boys he can find. Tell him to bring them up quietly so Johnny won't hear. We're going to have to hold him down and he isn't going to like it."

Sam turned to Teresa. "I'm hoping you have some of Señor Cruz' all-purpose, good-for-what-ails-you, kill-or-cure skunk oil liniment on hand... I seem to have run out."

Teresa grinned. "Sure do... we always keep a good supply. Maria Elena swears you could smear it on a zombie and bring him back to life!"

"Wouldn't doubt it. Works for you women, anyway."

Teresa ducked her head in feigned embarrassment. Some years ago, Doctor Sam had been scandalized to discover that all the females of childbearing age on the Lancer estancia relied on an old ranch cook's homemade remedy. Among many other properties, the noxious ointment effectively relieved monthly cramping and lower back pain as well as arthritis, rheumatism, chest congestion and muscle strain in people and a variety of leg ailments in horses. Nowadays it was a stock item in Doctor Sam's medical kit unless he ran out. Though staunchly refusing to disclose the exact recipe, Cochie wasn't above striking up a deal with the district sawbones—Sam providing some of the more arcane raw ingredients and the lidded apothecary jars (bought wholesale) in return for a steady supply.

"Well, don't just stand there... go get me a jar! I'll find something else to check while I'm waiting."

**Teresa was the first to return, **waiting outside in the hallway with Scott until Jelly and two older teenage Mexican boys padded up the staircase to join them. The doctor came out, quietly closing the door behind him and dispensed instructions.

Scott groaned. Teresa and Jelly looked resigned. They knew what was coming. The two Mexican boys looked like they were about to wet their pants, not in the least bit eager to latch imprisoning hands on Johnny Madrid!

Sam, Teresa and Scott went in first. Johnny was on his side again, eyes closed but not asleep. Teresa knelt by the side of the bed so her face was level with Johnny's. She brushed the hair away from his forehead while keeping up a running commentary to disguise the advance of four men each with a designated arm or ankle to tackle on Sam's command. She enticed him to roll onto his belly and stretch out.

"Now!"

Teresa scrambled aside as Johnny came up with a howl of fury... or tried to... bucking like a mule with four pairs of strong hands pinioning him to the bed while Sam held the drug-soaked cotton pad to his face. In a matter of seconds he quit fighting and the doctor signaled they could let go.

"How long will he be out?" Teresa asked, her face ashen.

"Only a few minutes... long enough for me to determine if that rib's really broken... if I can." Doctor Sam had to sit on the side of the bed and lean over his patient to probe. Finally he reached out. "Take the lid off that jar and hand it to me please, Scott."

Having thoroughly massaged a large gob into the bruised area, Sam stood up and stretched, noting Teresa's strained face.

"Don't cry, honey. We had to do it this way—the pain would have been intolerable and I couldn't have him trying to jerk away from me. He's got a hairline fracture all right... painful but not serious, and there's some bruising to intercostal tissue. He'll be fine in a week or so... maybe even just a couple of days... unless there's some internal damage we don't know about yet. The bad news is he won't be riding for at least a week or two. God help you all."

The Mexican boys looked ready to bolt at the slightest sign Johnny Madrid Lancer wasn't as out of it as he appeared. Jelly thanked them and told them they could go. They exited so quickly all that was left were dust particles dancing in the air. Scott rushed out behind them on his way to the lavatory, certain he was about to heave.

"I'm not crying..." Teresa lied. "I just feel bad we had to be so deceitful about it. It's been so hard getting him to trust us... when we do things like this to him we lose ground. He's going to be so angry..."

"Then he'll just have to be angry. He'll get over it. I feel sorry for you, little girl... 'cause you're going to have to nurse him and put up with him in the meantime."

"I know. Not the first time."

"You know the drill. Ice packs for the rest of the day. Try to keep him in bed for a few days, but sitting up when he can manage it. Only clear liquids such as chicken broth for two days and as much water as you can get him to drink. Slip enough laudanum into the broth to keep him quiet and pain-free. In a few days he can have some whiskey or whatever to help him sleep. Light meals for a week. He's going to hurt for a good long while."

"How long of a while is that, Doc?"

"Two to four weeks. I'll be back in two days to check on him but there's nothing more I can do. Don't let him get you down, Teresa, and let Scott take over if you get too tired."

"Scott's got to be out at the cattle camps..."

"Oh... that's right. Jelly, then. My point is, don't run yourself ragged, young lady. Johnny Lancer is by far the worst, most uncooperative patient I've ever had and you shouldn't have to suffer for it."

"I know that, too."


	25. Chapter 25

**• • • • • ****SATURDAY, APRIL 30 • • • • •**

_Chapter 25: _**THE FAMILY WAY**

**La Villa Cameron, morning...** Paul had gone home the night before to make arrangements with his housekeeper, pack his bags and pick up materials from Agent Lemiuex at the office. He was also to pick up stageline tickets for his and Murdoch's passage north. Trey's presence was required at a board meeting of his law firm, so Curtis had driven them into the city in the shay. The twins had been promised a day at the beach. To that end, Chuck and Tina were loading up the surrey.

The convent visit wasn't until tomorrow. Left with two restless guests and a bright idea, Luisa Regina suggested Murdoch and Cat go for a leisurely morning ride, taking the time to get better acquainted. She and Amanda would look after Joshua.

With Murdoch on Emperador in the lead and Cat on another, equally impressive Montero-bred paso fino gelding, they rode single-file down the tortuous path to the shoreline. There were no other riders but two families had come around the headland in small boats and anchored in the cove. Both adults and children in bathing costumes slogged through the waist-high seagrass shallows, netting crabs and scallops. Murdoch and Cat settled in a sandy drift with their backs against a fallen log with a crook in it, so that they sat at right angles and could see each other's faces.

"Now would be a good time for questions, Mister Lancer," Cat stated. "I'm sure you must have some. I know I do. Have you decided yet whether or not to accept Jordan as your son?"

Murdoch thought about the bright-eyed child they'd left in the kitchen. His answer was an unequivocal 'yes' because that was what was in his heart if not yet solidly implanted in his head.

"Good. Now that we've established that... it's your turn."

"May I ask you a personal question, Mrs... er... Catriona."

"It's 'Cat' if you please... and we can hardly have a conversation without delving into personal topics. You may ask me anything you like—I'm not easily offended. However, I do reserve the right of refusal to answer. Same goes for you. Do we have a deal?" She presented a hand and he took it.

"Deal."

"Then fire away."

Might as well get straight to the point. "Are you and Jordan_ legally _married?"

**"****Depends on whom you ask.** The State of California might not see it that way but the Diocese of San Diego says we are. Jody turned seventeen on May first, 1868. We married June fifteenth in Mission San Diego de Alcala. Joshua was born five months later on November fifteenth. Are you shocked?"

Murdoch couldn't think of an appropriate answer right off because... yes, he was. He'd never heard a woman so brazenly admit to such a thing. It just wasn't done. First of all, women simply didn't discuss these matters with men. Secondly, it was an accepted fact that babies appearing any sooner than nine months into a marriage were 'premature'... no matter how much they weighed. Johnny'd been one of those seven-months wonders.

"Ah... these things happen... I suppose..." he fumbled.

Cat had a mischievous glint in her eye. "It wasn't an accident. I think perhaps after you've met Martha you'll have a better appreciation of Mexican upperclass traditions when it comes to getting the most value out of their children. To a man like Ed Montero, children are chattel... negotiable goods. He'd already nailed down a profitable match for Martha and was in the process of arranging one for Jody. Jody didn't have much value as a prospective heir but he was still worth something to a desperate father with an otherwise unmarriageable daughter. I wasn't about to let that happen."

"I know this is improper, but... obviously you're somewhat older... may I ask your age, Cat? And you must call me 'Murdoch'."

The girl chuckled. "I know what you're wondering... what would possess a twenty-one-year-old woman in her right mind to marry a just-turned-seventeen-year-old! Something you need to understand, Mister Lancer—Murdoch—Jody's not like other people. He's got more general knowledge packed in his head than most grown men... educated men. If you met him in a dark room... didn't know and couldn't see how young he is, you wouldn't know in conversation that he wasn't your peer in terms of age."

"I find that a little hard to comprehend..."

"Oh? Why? A curious thing about differences in age between spouses... the older the partners get, the less the age gap seems to matter. They achieve a sort of parity. When we're together I don't notice the difference... it's like being married to a thirty-year-old, or even older. I wonder, Murdoch, what it feels like to a forty- or fifty-year-old man with a twenty-year-old wife? Consider, for example, your next wife as being my age. You'd think of her as 'wife', yes? Not as 'daughter', although she'd be young enough to be. Happens all the time... older men wedding women young enough to be their own daughters."

"That's different!'

"Really? How so?"

Murdoch changed the subject. "How long have you known each other?"

"Let me put it this way... the first time we slept together, I was eight and he was three. You want to hear the whole saga?"

Murdoch couldn't help but laugh. "Seems an interesting story. Yes... I most certainly do want to hear it!"

**Cat laughed, too,** and picked up the narrative, her tone turning serious. "My father had left my mother well-off enough so that she didn't have to work, but she never could stand being idle so she decided to get a job. All she knew was cooking and housekeeping. Uncle Trey found her the position with Eli and Serafina Montero. They'd just acquired the property at San Clemente along with a huge _hacienda_... more than Fina could manage on her own. She was expecting their first child.

"The Montero brothers hadn't yet become estranged so there was a lot of visiting back and forth in those days... especially when one or the other's wife was having a baby. Pilar came up to help out even though she was pregnant herself and had the morning sickness. What with everyone fussing over Fina, who was frail and having a hard time of it, no one was paying attention to Pilar's little boy. They all assumed the Mexican servants were looking after him, but they weren't. He was small for his age. Hardly talked, didn't smile, had strange bruises all over his body. They were afraid there was something wrong with him that might be catching to their own children. He was so quiet many people thought he was deaf and dumb. When Mama finally noticed he was being neglected, she put me to minding him.

"I was only eight and still playing with dolls. What I really wanted was a puppy but Mama said no. Instead I was given this real live dollbaby which was almost as good. I toted that sad little boy around all summer until Pilar went home. Seven months later it was Pilar's turn so Mama and Fina went down to Chula Vista to help out and I went with them. Same scenario... except that's when I found out where all those bruises were coming from—Ed was taking the belt to Jody any time he cried or made any noise. I complained to Mama but she said it was none of our business. This went on for the next seven years, until Jody was sent away to school and to live with the Camerons in Los Angeles.

"**He was ten and I was fifteen, **just starting high school in San Diego. At twelve he was sent to that Jesuit school in San Francisco, from which he graduated early—at fifteen. So, for five years we saw each other only at family functions.

"With no sons, Jody was Ed's fallback heir and bargaining chip. As I said, Ed already had some kind of deal brewing with a neighbor who had oceanfront properties Ed wanted... and a virago of a daughter with no other marital prospects. The plan was for Jody to come home as soon as he graduated, work on the ranch for a year, then marry this girl as soon as he turned sixteen... the threat was that if he didn't go along with it, his mother and sisters would suffer the consequences.

"Ed's plan for Jody suffered a setback when, instead of going back to Chula Vista as ordered, he ran away and hid out at San Clemente. I had just obtained my degree in business management and started working for Eli, who'd just become my stepfather. Mama and I used what influence we had with Eli to get him to agree Jody could stay with us... even though that caused a rift between the brothers. With the help of the Jesuits at Saint Ignatius, Eli arranged for Jody to attend Capistrano Mission College—the same college from which I'd just graduated. It's only thirty miles from San Clemente so Jody could take the stage home on Friday evenings and return to school on Sunday nights, same as I'd done.

"That's also when our relationship—Jody and mine—began to change from sister-brother to something else. By the time he was sixteen he wasn't a little kid anymore—mentally _or_ physically. As for me, well... I wasn't exactly an innocent flower of virtue... not after four years of coeducational college!"

**Murdoch was floundering** in unknown waters here. He'd never in his life encountered a female so candid about her exploits. Even the saloon girls he'd known would never have spoken so openly about falling from grace!

"You mentioned blackmail... what sort of 'consequences' are we talking about here?"

"Pilar you already know about. As for the girls..." Cat left the statement hanging but gave Murdoch a searching look, willing him to understand.

"Surely he didn't beat them?"

"Of course not. He needed them for advantageous matches in the future... building blocks for his empire, so they had to be physically undamaged... at least, not in an obvious way that could be seen in passing. Which didn't spare them from psychological abuse... or Martha from worse."

Murdoch, beginning to comprehend what Cat _hadn't_ said, was mortified.

"Are you saying... he... uh... _interfered_ with the girl?"

"What a quaint old-fashioned term!" Cat almost sneered. "No sense in pussyfooting around the subject, Murdoch. He was sexually molesting her... had been for quite some time. Jody didn't know this, of course... otherwise he... well... we can discuss this later, after you've had time to think about it, so let's get back to Jody."

Murdoch realized that Cat was right... this new revelation was a bit much to absorb all at once.

"Okay. So what happened then... with you and Jody?"

"Ed got more and more furious as he saw his land deal slipping away. He took the matter to court, as Jody was underage and Ed was legal guardian. The magistrate ruled in favor of Jody's continuing to reside at San Clemente as long as he was in school. However, he upheld the marriage contract Ed had negotiated, which would take effect upon Jody's graduation from college... or if he dropped out, whichever occurred first. That gave him a two-year extension. The father of the presumptive bride agreed to the delay and signed the property over to Ed, who immediately started developing it.

"Jody and I had already arrived at the conclusion that we wanted to be together. I was well over eighteen so I didn't need parental consent, but in this state a man has to be twenty-one. We were prepared to wait four more years, but with the judge's ruling we couldn't leave it that long.

"There was only one way out of our dilemma and we took it. The padre took one look at my big belly and couldn't marry us fast enough. Ed damned near had an apoplectic fit when he found out. He even threw money at the local bishop, trying to get the marriage annulled, but with a baby on the way... Anyway, that's our story."

**Murdoch had been pinking up** as the story progressed and imagined his ears, and probably his face, were by now beet red.

"Sorry if you find this embarrassing," Cat commented, not looking in the least bit perturbed.

"It's all right... I'll get over it. You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"Not usually. And I get the impression you're a man who prefers to lay it on the line yourself."

"You're right about that."

"Next question?"

"Where do... how do... you and your... you and Jody... support yourselves?"

It was a lame question, Murdoch knew, as Cat flung him an amused look.

"Not to worry. We're not going to turn up on your doorstep begging to be taken in."

"I wasn't suggesting..."

"No... but you were thinking it. We're quite well off at Vista Clemente, actually... with our own grace-and-favor cottage on the grounds. Eli's not an idiot... we're his best and brightest assets—Mama's doing a fantastic job running the _estancia_ and raising Eli's children. I'm business manager and chief accountant for Vista Montero Winery and I'm very good at what I do, not to toot my own horn too loudly. Eli knows it and pays me the same as if I were a male accountant. He likes keeping the money in the family, so to speak, and knows he can trust me with his business.

"Jody's still in college... or _was_, anyway, until all this came up—Eli's footing that bill. He's studying agronomy—specifically, viniculture—and has already come up with some valuable ideas in improving production. Eli's thrilled because he's got more time now to indulge in his hobby."

"Hobby?" Murdoch was genuinely curious, not understanding the concept of 'leisure time'—running his ranch occupied his every waking moment.

**"****Eli trains show horses**—the kind those old-timey _hidalgos_ like to show off on their Sunday afternoon _paseos_ in the park with their families in fancy carriages behind. He's not a breeder, himself... he's a classically trained dressage master and a graduate of the Cadre Noir in France. He got interested in that while in Europe learning about grape culture. The horses come to us when they're about two years old, already backed to ride or drive. He applies the polish. We're straying off topic here..."

"So we are. My apologies. I have a feeling Luisa wasn't anticipating a visit from you."

"She wasn't. Paul sent for me by telegram Tuesday evening. It's just a day trip by coach. Joshua and I spent Wednesday night at his house and came up in the morning."

"You must know the LaPierres well to be staying at someone's house while his wife's away." Murdoch's disapproval must have leaked out around the edges.

Cat laughed. "Not to worry... Paul is a gentleman beyond reproach and everyone knows it, just as everyone knows I'm a one-man woman. His wife Marcia and I are old college friends... she was my sorority sponsor and roommate. She's known about Jody and me from way back, as well as what's been going on these past six months, so she understands. Besides... their housekeeper knows me and is used to me staying over even if they're not home.

"It's getting on toward lunchtime so we should probably head back... I think we have time for one more question..."

"Why did Paul want you here... surely not just to meet me?"

"Of course not. I'm going with the two of you back to your ranch."

"I think not."

"I think yes."

"We'll be going out to the cow camps... no place for a young lady."

"You might be surprised at what kinds of places this young lady's been to!"

"Cat... I didn't think I had any surprise left in me. But it's still no. You're not going with us."

"Murdoch... I don't think you understand my position here. You see... _I'm_ the bait."

"No!" Murdoch was adamant. But he was no match for this female's fierce determination.

"As I'm sure has been explained, Jody has... special needs. Most of the time he's able to function as any other adult... but at other times his logic is skewed, to put it bluntly. I love him and Josh needs his father. I want him back where I can look after him. I intend to get him back, too..."

"You're _not_ going. Period. End of conversation."

"We'll just see about that, won't we?"


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26: _**AN INAUSPICOUS DAY**

**Condor Camp, early afternoon...** Jody slept until he couldn't anymore. Except for the susurrus of oak leaves in a balmy breeze and the twittering of birds, the camp was unnaturally quiet. Making his way downslope toward the latrines he realized there was no one in sight. Then he remembered... night crew were sleeping, everyone else out trolling for cattle. Paco and Carlos were on remuda duty with Jimmy on an early-morning/late-afternoon split shift.

Aaron Goldman silently materialized at Jody's elbow and matched his pace. The two took care of their wake-up constitutionals and walked over to the washstands. They splashed sleep off their faces and twigged their teeth. Jody still didn't see any need to shave but hung around while Ronnie made a slapdash effort at his jaws and upper lip. At sixteen he was already an imposing six feet tall with broad shoulders and a well-defined bluish scraggle that presaged a very manly and properly rabbinic beard to come.

Jimmy was playing penny ante poker with the two cook's assistants, Felix Rodrigo and Mateo Sanchez. He flapped a paw in greeting to his co-wranglers and grinned. Cochie gave Jody and Ronnie a huge beaming smile, indicating they were to take a seat at the table nearest the stove... the one usually reserved for supervisors and the camp boss.

"_Bienvenido, Sombra y Poca Sombra... Siéntese por favor!" _ 'Little Shadow?' Ronnie thought that was pretty funny, seeing as how he was almost a head taller than Jody and a good forty pounds heavier.

_"__¿Quieres desayuno?_ I cook whatever you like!"

"No thanks... I'll have whatever's leftover from lunch," Jody said. Ronnie nodded in agreement.

Cochie pretended to spit. "Pah! I feex somethin' special good for you, no?" He brought them a pot of coffee, spoons, blue speckled enameled cups and an opened tin of condensed milk. After fussing at his work station he returned with cutlery and plates bearing doorstop slices of sourdough bread, shaved sugar-cured ham, slabs of sharp wheel cheese, sour pickles, sliced tomatoes and onions and a stone crock of _mayonesa_. Jody was pretty sure this wasn't what the cowboys were served for lunch today or would be served any other day but he wasn't about to argue. He regarded with fascination Ronnie's elaborate construction that he'd need de-hingeable jaws like a snake to get his teeth around, generous on the ham.

"Aren't you...?"

"I am."

"I thought pork was a no-no."

"_Pork?_" Ronnie looked at his sandwich in mock suspicion. "Oh no... you are mistaken, Mister _Sombra_... this is the best _chicken_ I ever threw a lip over!"

Jody decided to leave it alone, other folks' dietary restrictions (or disregard thereof) being none of his concern. When they were done, Ronnie wandered over to join the card game in progress. Jody stopped off in the chuck wagon long enough to anoint his bad hip with Cochie's take-no-prisoners unguent, then strolled up the incline to check on the remuda...

**No one was minding the store.** Paco and Carlos were laid back in the shade, smoking and joking. Not at all pleased to see their team leader when he walked up on them—but not sufficiently motivated to get up, either. An empty tequila bottle rested on the grass between them.

Jody pointed out that while they'd been slacking off a half dozen horses had detached themselves from the herd, had grazed their way over the lip of the valley and were now specks in the distance. The two Mexicans sneered when Jody told them to mount up and go after them.

"_¿Para que? _Dey not goin' nowheres an' no one need 'em right now nohow."

Jody sighed. He'd been warned a confrontation was inevitable. And now that he had one on his hands, he was unprepared to deal with it. Feeling like an idiot, he said it anyway...

"Because I said so?"

"So? You gonna make us? Go 'way, _camarón._ You disturb our _siesta_."

An excellent point... how was he going to make them do anything? Before he had time to dwell on it, Paco—the larger of the two—slowly got to his feet, slipping his bone-handled Oaxaca from its belt sheath. The eight-inch blade looked as long as a saber to one who'd stupidly left his own knife with his saddle, intending to slip it back in his boot when he went on shift.

"You are like a _ratoncito_ in my bedroll, _Sombra_... an' I gonna skin you like one," Paco hissed, advancing with the knife in his left hand and his right hand clenched.

**Suspecting he was about to be** immersed in deep shit, Jody stepped backwards out of range. He had every intention of making a run for it... and would have done if Carlos hadn't circled around behind him and given him a forceful shove forward. Paco's outstretched fist caught him on the shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him down. Pain flared in the bad hip as he rolled away and scrambled up on one knee.

Paco lunged at him again, nimbler than Jody expected. His right arm came up instinctively to deflect the thrust and the knife sliced his forearm as Paco plowed into him. They both hit the ground, grappling as Carlos danced nearby, trying to score a kick in the ribs. Jody snaked out a hand and grabbed Carlos by the ankle, pulling him off balance. Carlos toppled over his buddy, knocking the knife from Paco's grasp.

Jody wormed out from under them on his hands and knees, scrabbling for possession of the weapon. Almost had it until a hand attached itself to his belt and yanked him back into the scrum. A vicious kick backwards elicited a shriek as his boot heel met Carlos' nose. He got to one knee before Paco got him in a headlock and hauled him up the rest of the way, systematically pounding his ribs while cutting off his wind.

His world going black around the edges, Jody suddenly realized from the overwhelming odor of armpit that his mouth was in close proximity with that tender spot at the back of the arm, just above the elbow. He bit down, hard. A blood-curdling scream erupted in his ear and the arm turned loose, flinging him away. The ground came up to claim him once again... except this time it offered him the knife.

**Suddenly all three were back** on their feet, Jody squaring off against the other two with knife in hand. He _could_ have thrown it and it _might_ have met its mark... but he couldn't take the chance that his aim would be accurate—the haft was slippery with his own warm blood. Instead—with the fury of the truly panicked, he threw himself forward and headbutted Paco in the gut. The bigger kid went down with an _oomph_ and stayed down, stunned. Carlos sat on the grass a few feet away, his eyes crossing and blood coursing through fingers clapped to his wrecked nose.

Paco Cardoza started to roll over to collect himself... then went very still when he felt a knee on his chest and an earlobe firmly fixed between a thumb and a forefinger. His own finely honed blade was applied to the side of his head where one swipe would take off that ear. The wielder of the knife spoke in such a soft, low tone Paco had to strain to hear him.

"Long as I'm team leader, when I tell you to do something, you do it. _Comprende?_"

"_Si si comprende _please don't cut off my ear I beg you Carlos help me_ ai ai ai!_"

**Jody didn't take the ear** but as a spoil of war relieved his adversary of a dime-size chunk of earlobe. While there are no major arteries in earlobes, they do contain a high concentration of capillaries. While Paco howled and writhed on the ground, spritzing blood in all directions, Carlos streaked for the pavilion, screeching that the crazy _Sombra_ had gone _loco_ and was mutilating his friend. Scattering cards, the two white wranglers and Cochie's two helpers leaped from the table and sprinted toward the remuda along with a couple of other _vaqueros_ who'd been loitering near the chuckwagon. Cochie himself huffed and puffed up the rise.

At the top, everyone but Ronnie and Jimmy raced to the downed man. The two wranglers peeled off to the picket line where Jody was attempting to climb up on Paco's mount. Jimmy snatched the reins away while Ronnie simply grabbed their leader by the waist and pulled him right back down.

"_Oi gevalt!_ Where do you think _you're_ going?"

Shaking and short of breath, Jody barely got the words out. "Horses run off... gotta go after 'em."

"Jeez, man... you're bleedin' like a stuck hog! I'd better go with..."

"No... you and Jimmy... take over here..."

"I said I'm goin' with and I'm goin'," Ronnie insisted stubbornly. "But wait a minute! Here..." He whipped out his bandanna and wrapped it tightly over the saturated one Jody already had in place. "You oughta get this tended first..."

"I'll be okay."

Finally in the saddle, Jody kicked the chestnut into a lope. Ronnie vaulted onto Carlos' horse and tore out after him.

**Jimmy returned to the others** surrounding Paco, who was hopping up and down with a filthy bandanna pressed to the side of his head, snot and tears dribbling down his face. Cochie was trying to calm him. Paco was swearing he'd been the victim of an unprovoked attack... that that crazy _Sombra_ had cut off his ear! He was going to kill that little _bastardo_! Impressed by the volume of blood spattered on his face, shirt and trousers, the onlookers were looking around for an unattached ear on the ground. They couldn't know, escorting Paco back to the pavilion for patching up, that most of the blood was actually Jody's.

Cochie detailed one of his assistants to help Jimmy, so the main body of the remuda wouldn't go unguarded. In the far distance they could see the two riders stealthily approaching the six strays—now that they'd got a taste of freedom they wouldn't be that easy to round up. The catchers were taking their time, not wanting to spook the strays into running, and it would be a while before they got back. In the meantime cowboys not left holding the cattle for the night were coming in and returning their horses to the remuda.

In camp the news quickly spread—that the temperamental and unpredictable runty halfbreed _indio_ was liable to go after you with a knife if you crossed him. Jimmy tried to counteract the rumors to no avail.

Cochie sewed up Paco's ear and realigned Carlos' nose, advising them to move their gear to the other side of the camp. They had no horses of their own and the supply wagon wouldn't be in until sometime tomorrow, so there was no question of their leaving. Hours earlier Vicente had gone over to the Falcon site, leaving Cochie in charge. Cochie had the authority to fire troublemakers but decided not to exert it, hoping Vicente would be back before a decision had to be made. Somebody would have to go—either fired or exchanged to another camp. Paco was inclined to laziness _if_ one didn't stay on him with a sharp stick but Cochie knew his family well—they desperately needed the income this job provided. And although the cook liked this _Sombra_ very much, he knew nothing about him and he definitely didn't care for the trouble in the ranks his presence was causing. He didn't want to have to be the one to dismiss him. And he still hadn't heard the other side...

**Suppertime came and went** with the _cocinero_ becoming increasingly concerned when neither Jimmy nor the two missing wranglers showed up. He stumped his way up to the picket rails where Jimmy was working a hoof pick on a stone his horse had picked up.

"Why you no come eat?" Cochie grunted, winded by the short walk up the hill.

Jimmy shrugged. "There's only me... I gotta watch the horses."

"Where _Sombra_? I want talk wit heem anyways."

"He and Ron got back about an hour ago. I thought he was with you, gettin' his arm fixed up. They caught all the horses, by the way."

"I no see heem. What wrong wit arm?"

"My guess is that Paco knifed him when they were fightin'. If a gun'd gone off, we woulda heard it."

"Why you no say thees before, eh?" The cook was genuinely alarmed—the very last thing he needed was one of the youngsters succumbing to blood loss or infection on _his_ watch! "Where dey is, you theenk?"

"I have an idea... hold on..." With a grunt he pried loose the offending rock. Straightening up and letting out an ear-piercing whistle, he waved at his temporary cohort. Felix heard and spurred his mount, coming around to their side of the herd in short order.

"What is?"

"Can you hold 'em for a while on your own? I gotta help Mister Cochie find Joey and Ronnie... they've disappeared."

"Sure 'ting... they quiet right now..."

"Be back soon as I can." He quickly unsaddled his horse and sent it downslope to join its comrades with a slap on the rump.

"Mister Cochie... follow me."

**Jimmy led the ****_cocinero_** down an almost invisible path along the creek, through spotty brush to a clearing where a grassy verge sloped to the edge of the pool. Sure enough, there was their missing lead wrangler, belly down parallel to the bank with his head pillowed on his left arm. He'd removed his shirt and his right arm trailed in the current. Ronnie sat beside him with his bare feet in the water. At first they thought Jody was unconscious but he lifted his head as they approached, trying and failing to leverage himself into a sitting position with his good arm. Ronnie helped him stand up on wobbly legs.

"You didn't have to come looking for us..." Jody grumbled. "We were about to come in anyway."

"Show Mister Cochie your arm," Ronnie said.

The cold running water had washed out the wound and retarded the bleeding as long as it stayed immersed. Clucking with dismay, Cochie informed them that they needed to get the _Sombra_ back to camp right away, that the wound required stitches.

Jody protested Ronnie's and Jimmy's attempts to get on either side of him. "I can walk on my own." Then he promptly passed out.

_"__Mierda!"_ Cochie said.

"Shit!" Jimmy swore.

"_Scheisse!"_ Ronnie echoed.

Dusk had descended as the three of them toted their burden back to camp and installed him in Cochie's bunk in the chuckwagon. Working quickly, Cochie put in six stitches before Jody came around, only to insist he could still work his shift. Yes, yes... of course he could, Cochie soothed... but first, if _Sombra_ would humor a fretful old man and please drink down some of his special anti-infection medicine. Within minutes Jody was down for the count.

**Ronnie and Jimmy were waiting** outside as Cochie emerged, dusting his hands together dramatically with an air of satisfaction—his 'special' remedy being a mulled concoction of mezcal, orange juice and honey that effectively cloaked the bitter aftertaste of laudanum.

_"__Para todo mal, mezcal, y para todo bien también,"_ he intoned. ("For everything bad, mezcal, and for everything else good as well!"). Noting that Jimmy had already put in a full day's worth, he sent that one off to bed and Ronnie to rejoin Felix back at the remuda.

Left with the problem of finding two replacement wranglers on short notice, Cochie trudged over to wake up the range boss. Ramón Jiménez owed him favors and, though disgruntled at having his sleep interrupted, agreed to lend him two of his ground crew in the morning.

With Ronnie and the substitute nighthawk on duty, the _Sombra_ safely knocked out for the duration and the rest of the _compañeros_ bedded down for the night, the _cocinero_ relaxed with a last cup of coffee, heavily fortified with mezcal. _Madre Dios!_ What a day! Elberto Cruz wasn't as superstition-ridden as most of the other Mexican hands, but he did still set store by portents—good _and_ bad. A knife fight resulting in three injuries on the third day out did not bode well for the rest of roundup.


	27. Chapter 27

**• • • • • ****SUNDAY, MAY 1 • • • • •**

_Chapter 27: _**GOING TO THE CONVENT**

**La Villa Cameron, morning... **Murdoch was startled out of a sound sleep by a vigorous pounding on the door of the bedroom. Grabbing his pocketwatch from the bedside table he peered at it, mortified to see it was almost nine o'clock. He _never_ slept that late!

"Murdoch Lancer! Are you dead in there?"

Struggling out of bed he stumbled to the door after checking to be sure his nightshirt was decently untangled and pulled down to a modest level. He cracked the door to find Luisa in the hallway, bobbing up and down on the balls of her tiny slippered feet and already dressed for the day.

"Our appointment to visit the Montero girls at the convent is at noon sharp... so get cracking. It'll take us forty-five minutes to get there and you'll need to eat first!" Without waiting for acknowledgment the petite woman scuttled away.

Murdoch washed and shaved in record time, hurriedly selecting what he judged was appropriate attire for an appearance in a religious house. By the time he reached the kitchen Tina had a plate of ham, eggs, biscuits and a side of redeye gravy ready to place in front of him.

Amanda and Luisa were loading a pair of wicker hampers with small sacks of gaily colored cotton tied with ribbons. "Sweets for the rest of the children at the orphanage," Luisa explained. "We always bring them goodies whenever we go."

"Orphanage?" Murdoch repeated.

"Didn't I say? Our Lady is a girls-only orphanage as well as a convent school and I'm a generous patron. While you boys were down at the beach building sandcastles the other day, I had Charles drive me down there for a word with the Mother Superior. Normally they need a week's notice for scheduling visitations. Fortunately we're very old dear friends and she's a most practical individual, inclined to be flexible when needs must."

"Luisa... you're a marvel!"

"Yes, yes... I know. Catriona, dear... do let Tina carry on with that and get your things together."

Enveloped in a voluminous white apron for protection from spills, Cat had been feeding her son in a high chair. When she arose and unwrapped herself, Murdoch was amazed by the transformation from androgynous ranch hand to dignified young matron in a dove grey silk traveling suit. She disappeared down the hall and reappeared ten minutes later with highbutton street shoes, matching accoutrements and subtly applied makeup. On her head she wore a lacy mantilla artfully arranged to disguise her short hair, and on her left ring finger a wide gold band... her only ornamentation.

Chuck had the surrey ready and waiting at the port cochere. Cat allowed herself to be properly handed up to the front seat next to Chuck. Murdoch took his place alongside Luisa Regina with baskets wedged between them on both the seat and floor. Despite Luisa's initial insistence on haste, the horses were held to—by Murdoch's standards—a leisurely enough pace that he had ample opportunity to observe the scenery with Luisa's running commentary. In this census year, the lady stated, the population was expected to exceed five thousand souls by a healthy margin. Great plans were afoot to turn the former sleepy pueblo into a major west coast shipping center and the transcontinental railroad was expected to become a reality within the next decade. An interesting place to visit, Murdoch thought... but he wouldn't want to live there. Entirely too busy.

**Our Lady of Saint Jerome Emiliani, Los Angeles...** The surrey pulled off the thoroughfare through imposing wrought-iron double gates in a seven-foot-high brick wall, standing open to a long private drive lined by royal palms. At the far end of the drive could be seen a cluster of white-painted brick buildings, the centerpiece of which was a stately colonial-style mansion with white Corinthian columns. The only evidence of the compound's function was a tastefully restrained bronze plaque mounted on a section of wall near the gates, announcing its dedication to the patron saint of orphans.

At the termination of the drive, Chuck reined in the horses at a cobblestone-paved turnaround. The visitors alighted and processioned up the steps to the deep verandah. Tall double oak doors swung open to reveal a statuesque figure in stark black and white—Reverend Mother Joseph Magdalena, Mother Superior of the convent and director of the attached Seminary for Orphaned Females. A mighty handsome woman for a penguin, so Murdoch was irreverently thinking while introductions were being made.

The Reverend Mother ushered them down a wide, dark-paneled corridor smelling of beeswax and incense to a surprisingly comfortable and well-appointed sitting room with a fire going in the little marble fireplace. All the chairs were upholstered in bright Mexican prints that matched the drapes, comfy-looking pillows adorned the sofa and a cheerful flower arrangement on a table basked in the sunlight spilling through tall stained-glass windows. A single ornately-carved, forbiddingly uncushioned mahogany chair with arms occupied a space near the door... the sentrypost (as Murdoch deemed it when he learned its purpose) for the nun overseeing the visitation with an eagle eye out for any improprieties! Cat and Chuck carried the wicker hampers through another door in the hall.

Murdoch had never set foot in a Catholic establishment other than a church when attending a christening, wedding or funeral. His staunch Presbyterian upbringing decried all that folderol. And where was all this dreariness and austerity Murdoch had heard so much about that supposedly existed in convents and monasteries? In the background, very faintly, he could hear strains of a piano and the voices of little girls in song. He seated himself in one of the more commodious chairs while Luisa and the head nun exchanged pleasantries.

**The Mother Superior left **the room and returned shortly with three young ladies in tow, followed up by a teenage girl in a gray smock, white pinafore and kerchief whom Murdoch took to be a housemaid. Luisa regarded the young postulant with dismay and drew her friend back into the hallway for a confab. Through the open door Murdoch could see the religieux nodding her head in agreement as Luisa stated her problem—that she and the girls' uncle had private matters to discuss... _Uncle?_ Also, they would be speaking privately with the oldest girl on adult matters... making it quite clear that topics would include items entirely unsuitable for the ears of an apprentice nun.

Presently the head nun took the younger one away. Left alone with Luisa and the three girls, Murdoch whispered, "I thought Cat was coming in with us?"

"She'll be back directly... she's taking the treats to the kitchen and dropping in to visit the five little _indio_ girls her family sponsors."

"And Chuck?"

"Chuck has been, or will be, chucked out on his ear immediately if not sooner. Other than family members, who have to stay in this room, the only men allowed on the premises are priests and the monks who do building and grounds maintenance. You don't have to whisper... we're not in church."

The head nun returned several minutes later with a wizened _belldame antigua_ which she and Luisa boosted onto the throne of vigilance, propping her up with pillows from the sofa and placing a tufted hassock under her tiny feet.

Reverend Mother Magdalena addressed Murdoch with a definite twinkle in her eyes. "Our revered Sister Michael Angelina is ninety-seven years of age. She has cataracts and is deaf as a doorknob. She is accustomed to napping after her lunch, which she has just enjoyed, so I trust you will not take it amiss if she happens to drop off during your visit."

Murdoch thanked her, understanding that the Reverend Mother had just arranged to abide by the spirit of the house rules while managing to bend them just a little. Within a few more minutes the elderly nun was slumped amongst the pillows, snoring like a freight train, and the Mother Superior excused herself.

**Luisa introduced the girls** by their full six-part legal names which boiled down to Martha, Graziella and Marisol. All three curtsied and arranged themselves daintily at the edge of the sofa. There they sat in absolute silence, backs ramrod straight, knees and ankles glued together, hands clasped in laps, eyes demurely directed downwards. All three wore utilitarian gray cotton dresses with white pinafores and gray stockings, their long hair pulled back into single plaits. All three were exquisite replicants of their mother... same heart-shaped face with delicate patrician features and flawless ivory complexions, same small dainty hands. They fair took Murdoch's breath away.

Luisa took the seat beside Murdoch, leaning forward intently toward the two younger girls. "Girls," she began, "we haven't much time so listen carefully. This gentleman is Mister Murdoch Lancer but you may call him 'Uncle Murdo'... just as you call me 'Aunt Luisa' even though I'm not your real auntie like Auntie Alex." They were too young to remember Auntie Fina.

"Yes, Aunt Luisa."

"You've been told that Jody had a different father from you. Uncle Murdo is Jody's real papa. He and Jody haven't met yet, but they're going to, and then Jody's other family will be part of our family, same as Uncle Eli and Auntie Alex and Uncle Trey and me... do you understand?"

"Yes, Aunt Luisa."

"Now then, Uncle Murdo wants to know all about Jody... what he looks like, what you like about him, what you don't like, funny things he does, the trouble he gets into... everything you can think of... Marisol, let's start with you. Uncle Murdo's already heard about Jody being away with the faeries... do you think you could explain that to him?"

"Yes, Aunt Luisa." And she did, along with a great many other revelations that only a young child would notice. Graziella went next, without much to add but from a slightly older viewpoint. After an hour the girls had run out of anything to say while their older sister sat there perfectly composed and stony-face. Luisa stood up to usher the two younger girls from the room. "I'll be right back." The little girls dutifully curtsied and followed their honorary aunt out of the room.

**As soon as the door closed, **Martha spoke up. "_Señor _Lancer, do you know where Jody is?" she asked bluntly, her English precise and unaccented.

"I'm sorry. I don't. Miss Montero... I know it must seem impossible to you that I've never met your brother... my own son, but that's the way it is. I want to know him... to help him... that's why I'm here—to learn as much as I can about him so I can look for him. I'm hoping you can give me more details about what happened that night..."

The look of unhappiness was quickly replaced by one of defiance although Murdoch would have sworn he saw a flash of fear... only for an instant. She was a truly lovely girl on the brink of womanhood, a carbon copy of her mother with Pilar's wondrous eyes and dulcet, throaty voice... but her manner was almost disdainful.

"There is nothing more to tell other than what I have already stated to the _policía_. Until that night, I had not seen or heard directly from my brother since our mother died and he ran away after... after what he learned about himself... and you. I wasn't told right away... Aunt Luisa had to explain to me, and much later we told my sisters. She and Cat came to visit us once a month. They saw firsthand how our difficulties were increasing... how our father was more and more falling into drunken rages and how afraid we—my sisters and I—had become of him. Aunt Luisa asked him if we could come stay with her and Uncle Trey for a while and he said no.

"Cat said she had not been in contact with Jody, either—that he had been traveling and she did not know where he was... and then he showed up that night unexpectedly. He climbed the olive tree and jumped to the terrace outside my bedroom. I told him what had been happening in his absence... he gave me his knife and told me to keep it close by at all times to protect myself.

"Papa must have overheard us although we were speaking ever so quietly. He broke through the door and entered with a gun in his hand. He struck me on the face and pushed me aside. Then he shot Jody. I panicked and stabbed him with the knife that was still in my hand."

She certainly was a cool one, this young woman. "Miss Montero, how did your father come to be shot in the chest if he had his back to you?"

"When he fell to his knees, he dropped the gun. I took it while he was getting up. Then he was on his feet and turning to try to get it away from me. I shot him."

"What did Jody do while all this was happening?"

"Nothing... I thought... I thought surely he was dead... there was so much blood! But then he moved and was able to stand up. There was no time to do anything... I told him to go quickly, get away. The housekeeper and some of the servants came running into the hall. They saw him. One of the maids went to tell the stablemaster. I told one of the houseboys to go for the sheriff. And then I waited in the library with my sisters and our housekeeper."

This recitation, uttered in a listless monotone, was entirely too facile, Murdoch thought.

"Miss Montero, I'm very much afraid you're not telling me the whole truth. No one's denying you both had reason to believe your lives were in danger... or faulting you for trying to defend yourselves... if that's what really happened. What we... and the authorities... are worried about is that Jody might have entered the premises for the express purpose of killing your father... and that he might have done so in cold blood. That perhaps he wasn't in his right mind at the time. He did say, in front of witnesses, that he was going to do that. Are you sure that gun wasn't _his_, and not Ed's, and that's why he took it away with him."

**"****That's not how it was!** Whoever says so is mistaken... or lying!"

"And you, young lady, are lying in your teeth!" Luisa had just reentered the room, along with Cat. "Do you want to know how I know that?" Luisa didn't wait for an answer. "Because according to Reverend Mother you haven't been to confession or taken communion since you got here... which means you're hiding something... something very important!"

Martha's face went pink but she stood her ground. "That is my personal business and I will not discuss it!"

"We're not asking you to reveal secrets that are between you and your confessor, but we need to know the truth about what happened, child."

"Why?" Martha retorted with barely disguised hostility.

Murdoch cut in, modulating his voice in what he hoped was encouraging gentleness. "Now Luisa... don't go badgering the young lady."

Martha cut in angrily. "Pardon me... but where have _you_ been the past eighteen years while your son... if he _is_ your son... was being mistreated?" This time her tone was openly scornful.

"Martha!" Luisa objected.

"No... she's right." Murdoch rushed to forestall the scolding. "I should have been there but I couldn't... because no one'd ever told me he existed. I only found out about him this week. Miss Montero... I have two other sons, both older... in their twenties now. They were taken from me as children for reasons I won't go into now, and I was denied the privilege of being with them as they became the fine young men they are today. Now I find I have another son who's growing up without me... and it pains my heart. Can you understand how I feel? I want to be a part of his life... I want to help him get out of whatever trouble he's in..."

For several minutes they sat in silence as the girl mulled over his plea, finally arriving at a decision with a slight nod of the head. She addressed Cat for the first time.

"Cat... I'll tell what really happened... but only if you wish for me to do so, because it will make you very unhappy and you will hate me forever."

Cat moved to her sister-by-marriage, taking both small hands in her big ones. She towered over the younger girl. "Oh no... I could never hate you. Whatever happens, happens. You must tell the truth... otherwise you'll have the guilt of lying on your conscience the rest of your life... and it won't help Jody at all."

Through tears now freely flowing, Martha began...


	28. Chapter 28

_Chapter 28: _**GOSSIPMONGERS AND RABBLEROUSERS**

**Condor Camp, dawn... ** By one of those fortuitous quirks of timing, Cipriano Melendez rode in from the southwest, where he'd been spot checking Eagle camp, at exactly the same time as Vicente Serrato was returning from Falcon to the west, where he'd ridden the previous evening to do the same. Camp boss Cheech Madeiros and range boss Ramón Jiménez were lingering over coffee and cigarillos before embarking on their daily routines. Sensing a prime opportunity for an extemporaneous session of the human resources committee, coordinator Elberto Cruz provided the incomers with a hearty breakfast before settling himself at the table with a tin platter heaped with his famed honey-sweetened cinnamon raisin biscuits. Though Cheech and Ramón professed to have already had enough to eat, their eyes were already glazing over as they automatically reached for the sugary treats.

The camp was starting to show signs of life—the usual music of nature... snorting horses, lowing cattle, chirping birds... plus the less salubrious sounds of men reluctantly crawling out of their warm bedrolls with coughs, sneezes, grunts, expectorations, curses and a few spectacular farts. Under a haze of blue cigar smoke the five men at the head table ignored all as news was disseminated, problems dissected and other matters of interest examined...

"When does the _patrón_ come?" Ramón asked.

"He is still visiting his friend in Los Angeles, I think," said Vicente.

"He will be home on the stage tomorrow," Cipriano said. "A telegram comes... my wife Maria Elena sends word with Felipe Reyes on the supply wagon. No doubt we can soon expect a visit."

"My sister Evalina claims a woman is involved..." Cheech said. "She hears this from her cousin Concepcion's daughter Ivelisse."

"Surely not!" Ramón protested. "My grandmother Bernadina assures my wife Lola that the _patrón_ would never go all that way for a woman! For a horse, perhaps..."

"My mama Delores tells my wife Eloisa that Señor Lancer has not been interested in a woman since... well... for a very long time!" Cheech agreed.

"It is true!" Cipriano disputed. "He receives a letter asking him to come because of this woman and so he goes. My Maria Elena overhears Señorita Teresa talking about it at breakfast..."

"I hear this, too," Vicente agreed, "from my wife Rosamunda's Aunt Lupe who is the mother of Inés."

"Not only that," Cochie added, "My granddaughter Nereida complains to her other grandmother Mona they are having to do extra housecleaning because the _patrón_ is bringing home a _guest!"_

"_Ai! _Perhaps this guest is his new fancy piece, eh?" Ramón postulated. "The sons are too old to be needing a mother!"

"What the sons need are wives... the sooner the better!" exclaimed Vicente, "My sister-in-law Josefina who runs the laundry says..."

"Too much information!" Cipriano barked. "In any case, my niece Nilda is the best friend of Simona whose sister Consuelo at Hernando's Hideaway in Morro Coyo keeps Señor Johnny very busy, so she says."

"And my daughter-in-law Veronica's cousin Velma who works at the Dirty Dove in Green River says that Señor Scott..." Cheech started.

Cipriano burped decorously and reached for the last biscuit. "One would think our women have nothing better to do than sit around and gossip over the _patron's_ affairs!"

"That reminds me..." Vicente snapped his fingers. "Señor Scott might be here sometime this afternoon... this morning the cook at Falcon, Jorge Diego, tells me he is already at Hawk and heading this way..."

"As if we didn't have enough trouble!" Ramón grumbled. "Now we have to nursemaid the sons of the _patrón_ as well!"

A silence fell over the gathering as they contemplated this new and unwelcome nuisance to their operations. Presently Cipriano spoke up, resuming _segundo_ mode.

"Anything else we need to address?"

"Unfortunately, yes..." Cochie stated with a dour frown. "I must report what happened yesterday..."

Ramón already knew about it, of course, and sat quietly while Cipriano and Vicente listened with increasingly glum faces. Whom should they believe... and what to do with them?

"This is partly my fault," Vicente admitted. "I warned the _Sombra_ that he might have to be somewhat forceful with Paco... but I never dreamed it would go this far..."

"Cutting off ears to make a point _is_ going a bit too far..." Cipriano stated, somewhat unnecessarily. "What do you intend to do about this situation?"

"I do not wish to fire anyone," Vicente admitted. "Especially Paco. He is the son of my wife's brother-in-law, Tomás Cardoza, and there will be no peace in the house if I let him go. I know he is not very smart but he is a good worker under the right boss... meaning someone bigger and meaner than he. The _Sombra_ is small but cunning. Paco was probably tempted beyond his ability to behave sensibly."

"So instead you will fire the _Sombra?_" Cipriano queried gently.

"Oh no... he is the best wrangler we have ever had... I was going to recommend to the _patrón_ that we keep him on full-time!"

"And Carlos... what of him?"

"Carlos will not cause trouble if he is separated from Paco. If Ramón will agree to letting me keep the two he has lent us and we can trade Paco and Carlos to other camps..."

"I will be happy for you to keep them," the range boss asserted, "if Cipriano can find replacements for me."

"I will see what I can do," Cipriano said, "but I cannot guarantee there are any to be had..."

"Then I will manage without..."

Vicente was immediately suspicious. As short-handed as they were, Ramón Jiménez was being entirely too amenable about permanently relinquishing the two secondments he'd provided this morning as promised. But, Vicente reminded himself, he did not have time to be picky and could only trust he was not being handed pigs in pokes.

Ramón was thinking how lucky he was to so easily be rid of those _pendejos_! They'd been the very last cowhands selected on hiring day—probably wouldn't even have been considered if Señors Scott and Cipriano had not been scraping the bottom of the applicant barrel to fill their quota. But he was not about to say this out loud.

Cheech was thinking how he could avoid having to entertain the _patrón's_ son.

Cochie was thinking about having to file injury reports and not looking forward to that.

Cipriano was thinking about interviewing the two injured Mexicans then decided he had more important business to attend to. The wranglers were Vicente's problem, after all... let him deal with it. All Cipriano had to contend with was convincing the Falcon and Eagle range bosses that they each could do with one less man.

The two _pendejos_ in question at the moment happened to be slogging in from the direction of the latrines, intent on scarfing down some breakfast before assuming their new duties. As they passed by the head table on their way to the food line to have their tin plates filled by the remaining cook's assistant, Ramón identified them to his companions, _sotto voce_. Vicente glared at him, knowing he'd been rooked. Aside from Señor Lancer, to whom he was devoted, white men fell into three categories as far as he was concerned: good enough, so-so, and bad news. He wasn't well acquainted with their cultural or religious divisiveness and wouldn't have cared even if he personally knew these boys, which he didn't. But he sure enough knew bad news when he saw it. Too well.

**Jeremy O'Doul and Kenneth Kelly** were Irishmen in their mid-twenties. As long as they were in the company of their own kind they were fine... funny, personable and as good workers as any. Whelped in the Irish ghettoes of New York City and reared in the shadows of 'No Irish Need Apply' signs, the two had run away to join hordes of their fellow kinsmen helping construct the Union Pacific's portion of the transcontinental railroad. They carried with them all the usual urban prejudices of a disenfranchised minority, picking up a host of others along the way... but they were quite democratic in that they despised everyone equally (except other sons of Éire).

In their months on the high plains, laboring in continual fear of attacks by natives, 'Injuns' floated to the top of their 'most hated' list. After encountering the Central Pacific's workforce at Promontory Point in Utah, 'Chinks' moved to top billing and stayed there until supplanted by 'Mescans' when eventually they traded the railroad business for the cowboy business in California. (Cowboyin' was a lot more fun than swinging a pick or sledgehammer.) It went without saying that halfbreeds of any combination were an abomination in the eyes of Mother Church, even though neither one could have quoted a biblical passage supporting that view.

First-timers Jerry and Ken were already in black moods from having discovered the reviled Mescans outnumbered the whites in Lancer's cow camp. Displeased to be reporting to a Mescan range boss. Even more unhappy when awakened in the middle of the night to be informed of their new assignments. When they presented their objections to Señor Ramón, that old beaner had informed them it was either put up or pack up and move on... and as they were both flat broke they had no alternative.

This morning they were positively wrathful, having found out they'd be in the company of a proddy and a hymie with a half-Mescan/half-blanketarse (their erroneous assumption) as their supervisor... and that they were expected to move their bedrolls over to the wranglers' enclave closer to the remuda. They damned sure weren't going to bed down with that trio of lower life forms!

**Having slept enough,** Jody woke up much earlier in the afternoon than he'd been doing, at first disoriented to find himself under canvas instead of the bay laurel bush. Oddly enough, he was in a calm, contemplative mood even though his injured arm _and_ hip were throbbing like the dickens as he took care of the usual waking-up business. When summoned by Vicente to give his account of the fracas, he did so factually... acknowledging that it was his word against theirs as to who started it. He accepted without comment Vicente's explanation that under the circumstances, without witnesses, it would be unfair to assign blame to either side. Therefore it was Vicente's decision that _Sombra_ Joey remain at Condor while Carlos and Paco were to be stationed elsewhere... a great inconvenience as the supply wagon that had arrived at lunchtime would have to detour by two other camps to drop them off before returning to the _hacienda_.

Sitting at the table closest to the chuckwagon, Jody and Vicente had had to raise their voices above the din of branding operations nearby. They were far enough removed from the staging area that dense clouds of dust didn't reach them although an occasional whiff of burnt hair and hide was wafted on the breeze. The continuous bawling of distraught cows temporarily deprived of their calves was buffered by the oak grove, punctuated with shouts and whistles from the cowboys and clopping of hooves across the plank bridge as a steady stream of mounted _vaqueros_ oscillated on the nearby path to the remuda.

Cochie insisted on checking Jody's arm to ascertain the bandage was secure. Then, with the meeting concluded, Vicente and Jody walked up to the picket rails so the latter could be introduced to his two new wranglers. Jody was instinctively repelled—they were loud and loutish and wore scowls on their unshaven faces as they brought horses up to waiting _vaqueros_. They barely acknowledged Jody but weren't glaringly impolite in the presence of the bigger bossman and quickly rode back down to the herd.

Jimmy cantered up and dismounted, giving Jody an almost imperceptible nod of disgust and a thumbs-down on the new men as soon as Vicente turned his back to return to the pavilion. He didn't have to explain his meaning... whinnies, snorts and squeals rolling uphill from the remuda indicated animals being roughly handled, with corresponding foul-mouthing from the handlers.

"Give me about an hour, then bring Cookie up for me," Jody said.

"Why? You and Ron ain't on for another three hours," Jimmy pointed out.

"I know... but I have a bad feeling about those two..."

"Sure you're up to it? I don't mind doin' a double..." Jimmy offered.

"No. I need to watch 'em work for a while before I say anything to Mr. Vicente..."

"Whatever you say... I don't like 'em none, either."

**In the interim hour**, Jody soaked in the pool but kept his arm elevated according to Cochie's strict instruction to not let the bandage get wet. At one point he was joined by Ron. Although Jody insisted there was no need for him to go on shift early as well, the latter cagily pointed out that although his _compadre_ might be able to lift and carry a heavy saddle one-handed, transferring it to horseback required two hands. No argument there.

The Irish boys assumed that the early arrival of their reliefs meant they'd be getting off early as well. No such luck. Especially after Jody inspected his mount and found damning evidence of rope burns and whip stripes on Cookie's hide. Jody shared his opinion on such treatment with the perpetrators and warned he wouldn't stand for it. O'Doul and Kelly blatantly denied any knowledge of how the marks had got there and all but challenged Jody to voice any contradiction.

Cookie had acquired his name from his grizzled coat with random brown splotches that resembled raisins on an oatmeal cookie. He was reputed to own the meanest disposition of any horse on the ranch, according to Johnny, which was why Jody had picked him after he'd been rejected by everyone else. (His other choice was a sleepy-looking wall-eyed buckskin unimaginatively dubbed 'Buck'.) If approached gently, Cookie was easy enough to bring along once a noose settled over his head, but if treated harshly he reacted in kind, fighting every step of the way and remaining tiresome for hours afterward.

Cookie gave Ron a devil of a time getting the saddle on. A one-handed rider would never be able to control him. Ron suggested they swap horses just for this shift. Jody agreed. For the next hour they patrolled the outskirts of the remuda and let the Irish boys continue handling the remounts. But knowing they were under observation and why, O'Doul and Kelly were souls of discretion. Jody sighed. Maybe they'd work out after all.


	29. Chapter 29

_Chapter 29: _**ON THE TRAIL WITH SCOTT**

**Lancer Ranch, late afternoon between camps...** The older brother had decided he might as well start out with the closest camp and work his way counterclockwise. Nothing much was going on at Eagle yet, with most of the crew still out scouring the hills for cattle. Since the terrain there was nothing _but_ hills and canyons, they'd be at it for a while.

The camp boss, Chili Gomez, seemed to be under the impression that the number one son had been sent there to spy on him and report back to the _patrón_. Scott tried to assure the man he was there merely as an observer, to learn... not to throw his weight around. But Chili had remained unconvinced and delicately hinted that perhaps Señor Scott might find more interesting things to observe elsewherre. So Scott had spent the night and after breakfast had cut out for Hawk.

Hawk had only a few hundred head rounded up so far—their recovery area included a higher percentage of cattle hiding out in the tule marsh. It would be another day or so before they'd start branding, after they'd winnowed out other folks' branded animals. Leonardo Valdés was slightly friendlier, but wary, seeking Scott's opinion on everything from the trivial (was the stew adequately peppered?) to the serious—to the tale of woe involving ears being lopped off by a demented _indio_, which had been relayed by Miguel Vega, driver of the supply wagon that had earlier delivered a transferee from Condor. Valdés conveyed his indignance at having this temporarily disabled wrangler, Carlos Ecchevarria, foisted off on him. Why did _he_ have to sacrifice one of his own perfectly healthy men to satisfy the needs of Condor camp? He strongly indicated his expectation that Señor Scott do something about this state of affairs when he got there!

_Ears? _Were knife fights and detached body parts issues Scott was supposed to address or adjudicate? Again, he tried to explain that he had no authority and wasn't in charge of anything. In the end he promised to look into the matter and left it at that. That seemed to satisfy the man.

**Pointing Charlemagne north,** Scott headed on to Condor, letting the rangy beast set his own pace as his dispirited rider was in no hurry to find himself being rebuffed by the next camp boss as well. Scott honestly had no idea why these men—so kind and helpful to him over the past months, eager and willing to show him anything he asked about the workings of the ranch—should suddenly prove distant and so obviously distrustful of his presence.

What Scott didn't understand... couldn't have known... was this: Chili Gomez and Leo Valdés and others just like them had lived the majority of their adult lives under the oversight of rich landowners like Murdoch Lancer. They were comfortable in their respective niches of the hierarchy because they knew exactly what was expected of them. They didn't mind occupying lower social positions than white people because they'd been lower still when the previous owners—titled, blue-blooded arrogant Spaniards—were in charge. Those stiff-necked old _hidalgos_ regarded their _peons_ as living property bound to the land, no better than medieval serfs. A responsible Anglo rancher such as Murdoch Lancer recognized his as valuable employees and strove to provide comfortable living and working conditions. A _peon_ with a weather-tight home, a contented wife and healthy, happy children would go the extra mile in the discharge of his duties. His loyalty would be secured.

Cipriano Melendez, Vicente Serrato, Elfredo Cruz, Chili Gomez and Leo Valdés were five of the eighteen stalwarts who'd stuck by their _patrón_ against the would-be land pirates. They'd lived on this land their entire lives and literally considered their blood as one with the soil under their feet. Yes, they'd been accommodating of the two new Lancers... not so much because they liked them (which they did), but because helping the sons adjust and learn was in the best interest of their _patrón_, whom they revered. But routine ranch life was one thing... life in the cow camps quite another.

Excepting Cipriano and Vicente, who knew better, the others assumed that once away from their home turf the sons would no longer be _estudiantes_ but white-men-in-charge, ranking much higher than themselves. The sons would be doing the telling and they in turn would be doing the doing instead of the other way around. No wonder there was confusion on their part when Señor Scott insisted he didn't have any orders for them.

There were other reasons for their reluctance to parcel out instructions to Scott, and it had to do with Murdoch Lancer's stated preference for non-white personnel. More often than not, the white men Murdoch had from time to time hired as camp bosses allowed their power to go to their heads and ended up abusing their Mexican underlings, verbally and sometimes physically. Conversely, those hired as range riders very often turned on their Mexican bosses, whom they considered inferior beings. The Lancer boys had been around for only three-quarters of a year. Who knew in which direction they might lean once out from under the _patrón's_ thumb and watchful eye?

**Scott wasn't so much interested** in the rounding-up part as in what happened afterward. He'd never seen an animal castrated or branded or ear-notched. He'd never tasted that seasonal delicacy known as mountain oysters, although he'd heard a lot about them and knew what they were. He yearned to be one of the boys and part of the cattle workers' fraternity.

There was a certain harmony to being a member of a well-oiled team that resonated with the former military officer who'd once worn with pride a uniform of blue and gold. Later on the uniform had been the gray and magenta of Harvard University's Base Ball Club. Even now he wore a team uniform of sorts, if not 'color-coordinated' with the other players—cotton duck trousers and cotton shirt; cotton longjohns and wool socks; the ubiquitous bandanna; leather vest and leather gloves; _chaparreras_; high-heeled boots and roweled spurs with _pajados_.

The only major variation from what everyone else wore (mostly _sombreros_) was his gray replica beaver-felt Hardee-style hat, center-creased with a braided leather hatband, brim pinned up on the left side with a silver and boar-bristle ornament. If only his Boston cronies could see him now they wouldn't know what to make of him! And they'd be positively stupified that he'd gone unwashed and unshaven for three whole days... not to mention that he now considered his gunbelt and holstered pistol as necessary accessories to his daily wear.

**Scott didn't daydream** often so he was startled to suddenly find that while his mind had been wandering, so had his horse. They weren't anywhere near the stage road he was supposed to have picked up between camps and the sun was lowering. Hellfire and damnation! It took him a good long while to get his bearings. It was near dusk by the time he finally reached Condor, where all was relatively quiet. Many of the day crew were already turning in. A few hardy souls were seated at trestle tables under the pavilion, playing poker by lanternlight, cleaning guns that didn't need cleaning or saddles that did and chewing the fat.

Cochie had set aside a surprisingly palatable supper for Scott (with a conspicuous absence of beans in any way, shape or form—Cochie'd been forewarned that Scott hated beans!), sent one of the assistants to prepare a washstand with clean hot water, and personally conducted the First Son to a sleeping place that had been fitted up for him near the chuck wagon.

Scott's request to meet with Vicente Serrato was met with the news that Señor Vicente had been unexpectedly called away to Falcon camp but would be back in the morning. The other individual with whom he wished to speak was on remuda duty. Too tired anyway to pursue the matter, Scott decided it could wait until morning and was asleep in two minutes.


	30. Chapter 30

**• • • • • ****MONDAY, MAY 2 • • • • •**

_Chapter 30: _**HOMEWARD BOUND**

**Much earlier that same day...** The sun wasn't even up yet and the Cahuenga stage depot was a heaving mass of humanity rushing hither and yon. In the outgoing lane four coaches were lined up in a row waiting to pull out as soon as all belongings were stowed and all seats filled. Three inbound coaches swarmed with porters juggling baggage and grooms leading pairs of horses in both directions, dodging just-debarked passengers too groggy and senseless to get out of the way. Stageline security trotted around tootling whistles in a effort to keep a central lane clear for pick-up and drop-off vehicles, shouting at laggards. It was a madhouse. Even out in the public street there wasn't a spot large enough to park a dogcart, so Chuck had simply dropped off Murdoch and his luggage with a handshake and driven away.

Someday, Murdoch thought... someday very soon—possibly in his lifetime—this will all be gone. Railroads were rapidly crisscrossing the western states, not just east and west but north and south, with links to smaller towns and communities being added every week. Big changes would come to the cattle ranching industry because of this... hopefully with big profits.

Murdoch looked around in vain for his traveling companion who was supposed to be meeting him here. Paul was nowhere in sight. His eyes swept the concourse as the crowd started to thin, boarding having been announced. Finally he decided he'd better head on over to his coach although his bags was already onboard and his seat reserved. The other five passengers were already clustered at the door... a dour-faced reverend in a black frock coat and plug hat, a short plump older woman in purple bombazine with a matching flowered and fruited chapeau, a nicely rounded younger woman in a colorful feathery ensemble that fairly screamed her profession, a brown-robed monk with his hood pulled up to shield his face, and a black-habited nun with her face similarly obscured by a traveling veil.

The mannerless minister shoved his way to the forefront and climbed up, rudely ignoring the women. The monk was assisting the wide-beamed lady who was encountering some difficulty squeezing through the narrow opening. He finally had no alternative but to place both hands squarely on that large expanse of purple and give it a mighty push that popped her right in. He then gallantly handed up the... er... other lady.

Something suddenly struck Murdoch as off about the two remaining on the ground. He lengthened his stride and caught up with them before they could board. Just as he opened his mouth, the nun lifted a corner of her veil and gave him a wink with a pale grey eye.

_No. No no no. NO!_ They'd gone around and around about this the other night.

**_"_****_What do you think you're doing?"_** he hissed in a whisper loud and fierce enough to draw the attention of the minister and the older woman, who hung their heads out the windows. Murdoch motioned to the two religieux to move away out of earshot.

"Did I not make myself clear? You. Are. Not. Going! Do you not understand the word 'no'!"

Cat regarded him tranquilly through the scrim of veil. "It's a free country, Mister Lancer. I can get on this stagecoach if I've a mind to and there's nothing you can do about it."

"You put her up to this!" He turned his fury on Paul, who merely shrugged.

"Did not. It was her idea."

"I'm not having it. Not! You hear me...?"

"Is this man bothering you, padre, sister?" A member of station security had strolled up, pleasant inquiry on his face but a nasty looking truncheon gripped in his right hand.

"Bother...? Oh no... no... not at all. We were simply disagreeing on Church doctrine as regards visionary ecumenism..." Paul answered pleasantly.

"Well... alrighty then." The unenlightened security guard didn't look too convinced but tipped his hat to the 'nun' and ambled away. Murdoch was madder than a wet hen but what could he do other than cause a scene in a public venue and that wasn't going to happen.

A game of musical seats ensued, sans music. Black Frock Coat had taken a primo seat at the forward-facing offside window. Purple Bombazine had captured the matching one at nearside. When Fancy Feathers squeezed between them, the pompous gentleman had snorted disdainfully—muttering something about 'tarts'—and moved to the offside window on the rear-facing seat. Fancy Feathers scooted over to take his place, leaving the spot in the middle for Black Habit. Next in was Brown Robe, who cozied up to Black Frock Coat and very kindly left the nearside window for Pissed Off Rancher, last to board. Soon they were on their way.

For the next fifteen miles the minister ostentatiously held his Bible in front of his face, pretending to read although there was no way he could have done so the way the coach was jiggling and lurching. Murdoch kept his face resolutely turned toward the window, refusing to look at the two miscreants, invisible steam puffing out of his ears, bottom lip poked out. They didn't seem to notice and carried on what conversation they could with Mrs. Eunice Beasley, widow, and Miss Lucille LeBlanc, professional entertainer.

Paul introduced himself as Brother Paul of the Dominican order of Saint Martin de Porres, patron saint of mixed-race people. When Mrs. Beasley—a pleasant enough person but one who felt entitled by virtue of her years to pose personal questions to complete strangers—asked his business, he gave her pretty much the same story that had been previously agreed upon. His traveling companion was his scribe and assistant, herself a scholar—Sister Mary Catriona of the Benedictine order of Saint Bede the Venerable, patron saint of historians.

Paul was careful to include Miss LeBlanc in the conversation, to the proper older woman's consternation. It happened that the young woman was also from New Orleans. Soon she and Brother Paul were off and running in fluent French. Which left Sister Mary Catriona, trapped in the middle, to deal with Mrs. Beasley's relentless inquisition.

Murdoch couldn't help but overhear. To their credit, Paul and Cat were most convincing in their respective roles. Moreover, he had to admit, grudgingly, that these disguises just _might_ work among an overwhelmingly Catholic work force. A habit-clad female cloistered in a tent in a cow camp at night would be as secure as a safe deposit box in a bank vault.

At the first stop to change teams, the minister got off without having said a word to anyone. At the next one Mrs. Beasley was handed down to a passel of waiting children and grandchildren. Murdoch feigned sleep and Cat studiously fingered her rosary beads. Paul and Lucy were still chattering. At the next to last way station before the overnighter, Miss Lucille bade them a fond farewell. Now that the three Lancer-bound passengers were alone and free to relax their guard, Cat slumped in her corner, crossing her legs and putting her feet on the opposing seat. Murdoch noted she was wearing britches and riding boots under the garb.

**"****I suppose we'll have to talk about this,"** Murdoch growled, sitting upright. He was still disgruntled, trying to think of ways to subvert the girl's intent to invade male territory. But what came out of his mouth was his admiration for her acting ability.

"Where'd you learn to... ah..."

"Drama Club at college... although I usually ended up with male roles—we never had enough boys to go around. I would've liked—just once—to play 'Juliet' or 'Ophelia'," she said wistfully, "but can you imagine me as a faint-hearted fair maiden in peril?"

No... Murdoch thought. He certainly couldn't—nor could he see her as a religious contemplative... though he _could_ very easily picture her as a Norse shieldmaiden complete with sword, breastplate and horned helmet.

"We were so busy arguing the other night we never got around to talking much about Jody. Wouldn't you like to know more about him as a person? As a man... the way I know him?"

"Well... I... Trey and Luisa's already brought me up to speed on his history and his... um... difficulties. But you're right... I'd like to learn more about his personality. You see, I keep trying to picture him in context with my other sons... Scott and Johnny."

"I've heard about your wives and sons and the reasons you didn't actually raise them."

"I've got the impression Jody's nothing at all like... the others. Although Johnny... well... he has social issues as well... stemming from the way he was brought up, I've assumed. Now I'm wondering if there might be some sort of hereditary condition... and that troubles me."

"Maybe I can help you out there... here's some things I'm sure Trey and Luisa haven't brought up: Chronologically, Jordan's a youth. Biologically, he's a man, capable of making love to a woman and fathering a child..."

"Cat... I..." Really... this was going too far.

"Physiologically, he's developed about as much as he's ever going to... he'll never be as big and brawny as you are and certainly doesn't look like you in any way..."

Murdoch interrupted her with a wry grin. "I'm bigger than the average bear, true... it may interest you to know that my sons... my other sons... are nowhere near my size and look nothing at all like me... or each other for that matter..."

"One thing you need to fix in your head, Murdoch, is that Jody is _not_ a child. He doesn't think that way and hasn't since he was fourteen. I know that's difficult for you to wrap your mind around, but you can't think of him or treat him that way. His intelligence and his ability to absorb knowledge are phenomenal. He sees the world through the eyes of a much _older _man although he knows full well he still has some growing up to do, socially speaking."

Murdoch was shaking his head. "The more I hear, the more he sounds exactly like Johnny!"

"Perhaps. But keep in mind that _that_ son's been out on his own in the real world most of his life. He's adapted and survived. What Jody _doesn't_ have are the life experiences that guide the rest of us in making sound judgment calls in emotional crises. His decision to run off on this quest, for instance... very bad idea—a knee-jerk response to that business with his stepfather at the funeral. Although we didn't fight about his leaving, he knew I wasn't happy about it. He hasn't actually admitted it in his letters to me, but I sense regret. He thinks he can fix this mess by himself... but he can't... he doesn't know _how_ and he's in over his head. We have to help him. _You_ have to help him... he's your son!"

The girl paused in her speech, turning her head away for a few moments. Murdoch feared she was about to start weeping but when she turned back, she seemed composed enough. He hesitantly reached over to put a hand on hers, holding it.

**"****Cat... do you believe** Jody _intended_ to kill Ed that night?"

"I don't believe he went there with that in mind, but I could be wrong. I haven't seen him in six months. He sent four letters—once from Boston, twice from Cuba, once from Brownsville. In none did he put forth his travel plans, or give me any indication of his state of mind. He made no mention of Ed. I'd like to believe his sole reason for going to the ranch that night was to check on his sisters without confronting Ed. However, the fact that he'd acquired a gun of his own—the derringer Martha claims he gave her and which she hid in the library—advertises some degree of premeditation. It's also possible that, after Martha told him what Ed had done, he flew into a homicidal rage."

Murdoch directed his next question at Paul. "What are your thoughts about Martha's revised story? Do you feel she was being straight with us?"

"The picture I've got," Paul began, "is that Jody wasn't wounded to the extent he couldn't get up... and that he probably was the one who put the knife in Ed's back… even she denies it. I believe Martha did shoot him in the chest... but with that missing derringer, not the gun Ed had brought into the room. The bullet recovered by the doctor was small-caliber and not consistent with the weapon Ed usually carried—which, of course, is _also_ missing... presumed to have been taken by Jody. I'm seeing this as a clear case of justifiable homicide... self-defense on both Jody's and Martha's part."

"Luisa was appalled when she heard Martha's story," Murdoch said, "I was afraid she was going to be sick right there in the room... she and Trey were so sure that Ed wouldn't have harmed the girls. The thought of it makes _me_ sick... that a man could violate his own daughter..."

Cat shrugged. "Or any woman. But it happens more often than most people know about... or want to hear about, especially when it's incestual rape. It's not fair that the shame almost always attaches to the victim... that society wants to believe that a woman must have done something, acted in some manner that invited an assault on her person. That's why very few women ever admit to it... and there's rarely a witness. Sure, a public accusation can be made... but it's very hard to prove when it's just her word against his. Maybe someday in the future forensic science will come up with some way to positively identify an offender... we're a long way from that, though.

"Occasionally a conviction is obtained, but the assailant usually gets no more than a slap on the wrist and the woman involved lives under a cloud of suspicion the rest of her life. You'd be surprised how many women commit suicide rather than live under that cloud."

Murdoch was alarmed. "You don't think she'd go that far, do you? She seemed remarkably calm in the telling."

Paul spoke. "Everything Cat's said is true. I've interviewed quite a few female prisoners on death row who freely admit to having murdered a man because 'he needed killing' yet steadfastly refuse to admit the real motivation. Even girls who'd killed their own fathers. Never have understood that."

"That's because you're not a woman, Paul," Cat said tartly. "Dignity to us is what honor is to you men... something to be preserved at all cost."

"I was wondering why Ed hadn't voiced a stronger objection to having his daughters removed from the household," Paul mused.

"James arranged it right after the incident, on the grounds there was no one left in the home to care for the younger girls. The housekeeper and most of the other servants flat out quit... well... they would've been fired anyway as they were and still are all prepared to testify against their _patrón_. In light of her confession, Martha had to be detained somewhere secure and the magistrate determined the girls should be kept together... hence the convent."

"But he knows where they are?"

"Oh yes... he still has rights, as a father... but he's not able to physically visit them at present. The bastard probably thinks he's safe from prosecution as Martha's kept her mouth shut so far."

**"****I have other questions,"** Murdoch said.

"Fire away."

"I understand Martha's engaged?"

"Yes, she is." Cat made a moue of disgust. "Basically Ed bartered that child for ten thousand acres of prime riverfront bottomland on the other side of the border, contract signed and sealed. James has been trying to negotiate an abrogation of the contract with the presumptive groom's Mexican attorneys but the gentleman's being obdurate about it... making unreasonable financial demands. Eli's waffling and not being at all helpful... sometimes saying the marriage should go forward according to his brother's wishes, other times stating he's against it."

"If the contract's broken, then what?"

"Martha wants to go to university. She's every bit as intelligent as Jody and the Camerons intend to see she gets there. Saint Ignatius and Notre Dame won't have her, of course... but there are many fine female seminaries back east that'll fall over backwards to get a brain of her caliber."

"And if it isn't broken?"

"Then we'll have to be careful to keep her safe on this side of border, not exposed in a position where she might be kidnapped. Those things do happen, you know."

"Tell me about this arranged marriage tradition... Oh yes... I know Europeans have historically practiced the very same thing... but it seems to me Mexican aristocracy takes it to extremes..."

"The Monteros are traditionalists... overzealous about succession and consolidating family reserves. In their society this is perfectly normal. This is empire-building at its finest... if you can't buy it, steal it or conquer it, you marry it. An unmarriageable son or daughter is anathema. Look at me... let's face it, I'm no great beauty... too tall, too gawky, too outspoken, too hardheaded—in a word, a tomboy. If Eli were my biological father, he would've been hard pressed to engineer a suitable match that would benefit not only me but the family—a wealthy and influential man who would've been a great help to Eli, business-wise, and who would've been good to me and to our children, even if I didn't love him.

"Martha was formally presented to society at her _quinceanera_ last year. She already had a handful of suitors and Ed chose the one of greatest benefit to _him_. If all this hadn't happened, she'd have been married on or about her sixteenth birthday... against her will... and dropping a baby before she's seventeen."

"Barbaric! What is this, the Middle Ages? Murdoch fumed. "We don't force children to marry... not in this day and age! How is this allowed to happen?"

"How old was Scott's mother when you married her?"

"Seventeen... but that was different... I was twenty-one... almost twenty-two! We were in love... and she was eighteen when Scott was born."

"And dead, too."

Crude but true, Murdoch thought, jolted.

"And Johnny's mother?"

"Sixteen... she said she was sixteen... afterwards," Murdoch admitted in a small voice. "But those Mexican girls... they mature so early. I thought she was older when we... when she got pregnant. But I didn't force myself on her."

Cat scoffed. "Another baby having a baby... didn't know what she wanted and way too young to appreciate what she had. Everything I've heard about you, and so far seen for myself, is positive. A grown woman with a little bit of life experience would have known that and not given you up so easily."

"Should I take that as a compliment?"

"It's meant to be."

**Paul came to life again,** speaking slowly. "Nothing to do with Jody but here's something else I'd like you to consider, Murdoch, since I know you've been berating yourself over having missed your older boys' formative years. What if Johnny hadn't turned out to be what he is... er... was, I mean? What if, instead—considering the life his mother dragged him into—he'd stayed in that life? He would have been just another illiterate dirt-poor _peon_, married at sixteen or seventeen to a neighboring _peon's_ daughter, riding a donkey, living in a mud hut and scratching out a corn patch on a half-acre of worthless land to feed a batch of wormy children."

"I... uh... I never thought of it that way."

"He'd still be _your_ son and those would still be _your_ grandchildren... but would you be able to accept them, integrate them into your way of life?"

"I suppose not."

"Granted, the life he took up wasn't what you'd have chosen for him..."

"No... of course not..."

"And had not Maria taken him away from you, he would be a completely different individual from the man you know today..."

"Well... yes, that's true... but, what are you driving at, Paul?"

"You may be considering that Jody's been deprived of a substantial portion of his boyhood, but look what he gets in return... a first class education if he chooses to finish it, perhaps an inheritance in an established ranchero that continues to generate money with blooded horses, a wife whom he actually likes and loves... did I mention that? He and Cat have known each other all their lives and have a wonderful rapport. They and their children will never want for anything. Is that so bad? And don't forget... he has his Cuban inheritance to look forward to. Cat has a healthy trust fund of her own and will inherit a bundle when her mother goes."

**"****Getting back to traditions..." **Murdoch suggested, uncomfortable with that conversational thread because it was too close to what he'd been thinking. Damned man was reading his mind.

"I have one more question... no offense to your mother, but why did Eli the traditionalist choose to marry her instead of buying himself a new young Mexican heiress?"

There again was that deep, throaty laugh. "Many reasons, Murdoch... he already had all the sons he needed... an heir and three spares. He needed a housekeeper and a good cook and mother for those boys worse than he needed a playmate. Why pay for three when you can just marry one? Ed's not a spendthrift... he always has an eye for the best investment. Besides, he has a mistress... and one little Mexican jumping bean is all he's got the energy for!"

"You mean your mother knows about this... mistress?"

"Oh sure... why should she care, though? She's got what _she_ wants, a beautiful _hacienda_ full of kids, a grandchild now... and a new baby of her own, although I'm not so sure she was really in favor of _that_. But as you said, accidents happen."

Women! Murdoch thought. He'd never understand them.


	31. Chapter 31

_Chapter 31: _**PREJUDICE AND PARANOIA**

**Condor Camp, midafternoon...** The previous night had proven uneventful after the Irishmen had gone off shift. A full moon had sailed in and out of silver and pewter clouds drifting above while below Jody remained oblivious to the storm building up in camp. At two in the morning the riders swapped out their horses for fresh ones although Cookie and Jinks, Ronnie's mount, hadn't had any more vigorous exercise than a fast walk. Ronnie again took care of Jody's temporary dexterity problem.

After a quick breakfast at sunrise, they both turned in for the day. Within minutes Ronnie was snoring. The day had started off warm enough that both boys had stripped down to their longjohn bottoms and slept on top of their blankets.

As Jody was drifting off he heard noises from the remuda he didn't much care for. Though he was tempted to crawl out and put a stop to whatever those two carrot-topped oafs were up to, he was really too tired to deal with them. Besides, Vicente would have a far more effective come-to-Jesus discussion with them if he detected any hint of mistreatment.

Except that Vicente wasn't in camp... he'd been called away again and had left word with Cochie to notify the lead wrangler of his absence. The cook saw no pressing need to disturb _Sombra_ Joey... time enough to tell him whenever he happened to wake up in the afternoon.

**"****Joey... wake up! **Come on, Joey... I need to talk to you."

"Five more minutes, Cat... just five more..." Jody mumbled, trying to kick away the annoying fingers clutching his toes, wiggling his foot. Ronnie had learned the hard way not to wake his partner suddenly by shaking a shoulder, especially when the latter was soundly asleep. He'd never forget the stark terror of a knife blade just a whisker away from his throat... and how close he'd come to wetting himself.

"Cat? Who's Cat? Joey... it's Ronnie..."

"What time is it?" Jody rolled over and cracked open a bleary eye. Ronnie was already dressed.

"How should I know? I ain't got a watch.

"Can't be time to get up already..."

"Near enough. Listen, before we go down for supper I gotta tell you something about those two micks... Jerry and that other _momzer_... and Mister Lancer."

"What about 'em?" Slowly Jody returned to the land of the living, propelling himself up on one elbow and thinking Missus Goldman's little boy would be enjoying a mouthful of soap right about now, were he home. Ronnie had mentioned she was death on good manners and proper grammar.

"About how you cut off Paco's ear and stuff..."

"I did no such thing...Vicente knows that... let him explain it. Wait a minute... which Mister Lancer?"

"Mister Scott—he came in from Hawk yesterday evening but he was off with Señor Ramón when we came off shift this morning. We just missed him. Mister Vin got called back to Osprey on an emergency and don't nobody know when he'll be back."

Jody pushed himself up to a cross-legged position. "What's Mister Scott got to do with Jerry and Kenny?"

"They went and sat over next to him while he was having his lunch. Those bogtrotters were talking all kinds of _dreck_ about us... telling Mister Lancer he'd better watch out he don't wake up with his scalp lifted and such..." Ronnie's voice trailed off. Jody could see the younger boy was not only agitated but angry.

"How do you know all this? You were supposed to be sleeping," Jody asked, thinking Mama Goldman was going to need more than one bar of soap when she got her _boychik_ back from summer camp.

"Woke up a couple hours ago... hadda go. When I was comin' back Cochie waves at me to meet him behind the chuckwagon. He says to watch your back because them _fershtinkiners_ are spreading rumors, gettin' the men all stirred up, and now they're tellin' lies. They're tellin' Mister Lancer he's boss since Mister Vin ain't here and it's his duty to get rid of the bad apples..."

"Is that what I am, a bad apple?" Jorey mused. "By the way, why were both of them there at the same time? They know they're supposed to go one at time so there's always two on the remuda. Did they leave Jimmy alone?"

"Cochie says they told Mister Scott you said it was okay."

"You know I didn't... and Cochie knows better."

"Where is Mister Scott right now?"

"Off with Señor Ramón again... you gotta talk to him, Joey, and tell him what really happened before those _schmucks_ get us all fired!"

Inwardly Jody was chuckling at the advantage multilingual folks have over those who have only one language. Ronnie Goldman, for instance, could cuss in four different tongues: English, Spanish, Hebrew and Yiddish.

"I guess we have to assume Mister Scott is too smart to be taken in by those two. Let me worry about it, okay? What else is on your mind? Come on... out with it before you bust."

Ronnie blushed and looked down, shamefaced. "I don't wanna sound like a big old crybaby..."

"Ronnie... I'm team leader... if someone's giving you grief, I need to know about it so I can do something about it."

"Well... they've been calling us names... me and Jake Lanstein and Auggie Morgenstern..."

Jody shrugged. "Sticks and stones, Ronnie. Just ignore it."

"No... you don't understand... whenever those _noodges_ catch one of us in the latrines, they make fun of our... of our... covenant with Abraham. They're getting real pushy, too."

"I see. First of all, I want to point out that you yourself just used six derogatory terms in four minutes..."

"Not where they could hear me!" Ronnie objected.

"Doesn't matter. It's a bad habit to fall into because eventually you'll forget and call one of them a name right to his face. That's how fights get started..."

"We didn't start any fights with them! I wanted to but Jake said to turn away."

"Good for Jake, then. He and Auggie are older and wiser than you and they know when to pick their battles. They also know _how_ to fight 'em."

"You fought Paco with a knife... you gonna fight Jerry and Ken, too?"

"Self-defense is a different issue. And that wasn't over a name. No, Ronnie, I'm not gonna fight 'em. There's more than one way to skin a rat."

"Don't you mean 'cat'?"

"Whatever."

"None a them dang mackerelsnappers got any respect for other folk's religions!" Ronnie blurted out hotly.

"There you go again... weren't you paying attention? No name-calling from now on. I mean it. And that's not strictly true about Catholics. I'm one and I respect your beliefs..."

Ronnie looked up, surprised. "You are? But you..."

"Furthermore, it's not just your people who practice that... particular form of body modification. There are many other people around the world who do it for _their_ beliefs... and for reasons other than religion... the Muslims, Australian aborigines, some North and South American natives, tribes in Africa... even some Christians."

"Really? Sometimes I wish I wasn't born Jewish," the boy admitted in a small voice. "My pa wants me to go into the pharmacy business with him. Ma wants me to be a rabbi. Either way I'll be goin' to school until I'm a old man. I'd druther be a cowboy... and free like you, Joey."

Jody could do nothing but shake his head sadly. "Believe me... you don't want to be anything like me right now."

"Why not? You're smart, you're brave, you don't treat me like a kid. I'm sure glad you're my friend!"

A case of hero-worship was the last thing Jody needed... or was it something else? Greek love? That would be even more unnerving!

"Well, Ronnie... I'd have to say it does seem that cowboyin' would be a whole lot more fun than working in a drugstore... but the thing is, there's no future in it. Someday you'll want to settle down... get married, raise a family of your own. A settling-down kinda woman wants a man who stays put in one place. You _do_ like girls, don't you?"

"Of course I do!" Ronnie retorted, affronted. "What kinda question is that?"

"Just checking."

"That is... I like looking at them, even though my folks've already got a match arranged for me. We're getting married when we turn eighteen."

"You're okay with that? Not getting to make your own choice, I mean."

The youngster shrugged. "Sure. Sarah's a real nice girl. Pretty, too. And it's our way."

"Well... _mazel tov_ and all that. You can tell me more about her tomorrow. Right now I want you to go have your supper."

"You ain't gotta tell me twice... I'm so hungry I could eat a froze skunk."

"Go on ahead, then..."

"Ain't you coming?"

"I don't feel like talking to Mister Scott just yet so I'm going to the pool for a while then on duty early. He won't pull me off the line to talk. Ask Cochie to rustle me up some grub I can eat in the saddle, would you, and some coffee in a canteen? Oh... and see if you can find out where Jerry and Ken pitched their bedrolls."

"Already know that... they're bunking over by Pete McCloud, Budge Hinson and Ben Atwell... on the south side of the pavilion. Why you wanna know that? What're we gonna do to them paddies...?"

"Ronnie!"

"Sorry!"

"_We_ aren't doing anything. I said I'll take care of it and I will. Go on now... act like everything's normal and you don't know anything. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah... sure... I guess so."

"Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

"Um... yeah... Mister Johnny ain't comin'. He had an accident. Hey... hadn't you orter let Cochie look at that arm...?"

**Jody evolved his game plan** while floating in the pool in the creek's elbow, with his bandaged arm properly out of the water and serving as anchor to an overhanging branch. By the time he and Ronnie went up to relieve a very cranky Jimmy (the two Irishmen hadn't bothered to return after lunch so he'd gone without), Jody had his moves in place. Around one o'clock in the morning he advised Ronnie he was going to slope off for about an hour, reminding the younger nighthawk to be extra vigilant on his solo rounds.

Skirting the perimeter of the pavilion on foot, Jody advanced on the clutch of cowboys among which Jerry and Ken were sawing logs—all were heavy sleepers. Both had undressed to their red union suits and were lying on top of their blankets. Ken was sprawled out on his belly and Jerry curled up on his side into the curve of his saddle, with his topnot of curly red hair dangling over the top. Both positions enabled easy access for what their predator had in mind, so with cat-like stealth he set to work.

Making his way back to the remuda, Jody congratulated himself on having had the presence of mind to hone his knife to a razor edge with his pocket whetstone while riding around in circles earlier. It wasn't near as good a knife as the one he'd left behind, but good enough once he got used to the different balance and remembered it needed sharpening after every use.


	32. Chapter 32

**• • • • • ****TUESDAY, MAY 3 • • • • •**

_Chapter 32: _**THE INTIMIDATION GAME**

**Condor Camp, early that morning...** Toward dawn Jody told Ronnie to take a breakfast break then come back and hold the herd until Jimmy and the two Irishmen took over the day shift. As soon as Ronnie returned, Jody sauntered down the hill toward the latrines, changing clothes and collecting some items from his bedroll along the way. Encountering Jimmy on the same quest, Jody advised that his co-wranglers might be a little tardy this morning but didn't explain why.

As expected, Jerry O'Doul and Kenny Kelly were cozying up to Scott Lancer at the head table. For maximum effect, Jody had settled on the 'uncivilized native' look. He'd removed his shirt and put the leather vest back on so that his bare arms and chest remained exposed. The week-old bruises were still prominent though considerably toned down to puce yellow, puke green and sickly lavender. At some point during his rounds the bandage on his forearm had come undone and he'd pulled two stitches while transferring Cookie's saddle to Buck (with Ronnie's assistance). The wound was still oozing a little around the torn threads, with streaks of dried blood from wrist to elbow. Some had dribbled on his pants leg. He left it as is. Completing the costume were his lucky osprey flight feather tucked into unkempt hair and—representing his personal totem—a single ivory-hued mountain lion claw strung on a leather thong.

After visiting the facility Jody detoured by the shave station and deposited a few items on the shelf where they couldn't fail to be seen. With a quick glance in a mirror confirming that he'd accumulated just enough stubble to appear appropriately menacing, he went to load up his tin plate, ignoring Cochie's raised eyebrows, and strolled over to join the trio at the head table.

**The two Irish lads looked up...** one with undisguised fear, his face going chalk white, and the other with a rising red flush and eyes full of venom. Scott was oblivious, busily tucking into a plate that did _not_ include refried beans.

"Good morning, all." Jody plunked himself down next to Scott and across the table from Jerry and Ken, offering his uninjured left arm to shake Scott's hand. "Mister Lancer, nice to see you again. Heard you were looking for me yesterday... sorry about that. Don't let me interrupt your meal..." He purposely kept his voice in a low register and employed correct diction to counterpoint his otherwise savage aspect and create confusion in the minds of those who might be anticipating grunts and unintelligible speech.

Scott returned the handshake but didn't respond immediately, having a mouthful of scrambled eggs and plainly not recognizing his greeter. Although table knives were available, almost everyone used his personal pocketknife as an eating utensil. Jody pulled the big buck knife from his boot and proceeded—with surgical precision—to reduce a large chunk of ham to a tidy heap of finely minced kibble. Meanwhile, he addressed Jerry.

"Schedule rotation, Mister O'Doul," he announced matter-of-factly. "Mister Goldman and I are going on days... we'll be doing double shifts with you today. Mister Hanson and Mister Kelly there will take nights."

"You can't do that... split us up... we're partners, so we are!" The other growled, eyes narrowed to slits.

Jody kept his bland expression. "I'm team leader, Mister O'Doul, not you. I make shift assignments as I see fit."

"We ain't werkin' fer no Injun and no Je... the likes a youse."

"You will... or draw your pay and hit the road." Jody knew full well both men weren't going anywhere. Neither owned a horse and they didn't have a nickle between them, having lost all their previous week's pay to deceptively baby-faced Jimmy Hanson, who'd learned poker from masters of the game who frequented his father's saloon.

Jerry jerked a thumb at his sidekick. "And jist what is it _hisself_ will be doin' all day whilst I'm workin', I'd like to know?"

Jody shrugged. "Whatever he wants, I suppose. Don't care, long as he shows up for nightherd."

"That ain't fair... he gits a half day 'n I don't!"

"Life is tough and then you die. Better finish your breakfast. We go on duty at six."

"I jist tole ya... I ain't..."

Speaking just loudly enough to catch the interest of the cowpokes at a nearby table, Jody launched a zinger. Loud enough that heads turned.

"You know, Jerry... folks are starting to speculate about you and your _buddy_... how you do _everything_ together... even use the latrine _together_. You can see how _that_ looks and I'm sure you lads wouldn't want to be thought _different_. Know what I mean?"

"Are ye after callin' me a bender?"

"Wouldn't think of it. But someone else might. And poor old Ken over there... well, he's been looking somewhat peaked lately—to the point his hair's starting to fall out... so I've heard. A spell of light night duty might do him some good."

Jerry's eyeballs bulged. His jaws were working but nothing was coming out of his mouth except a few tiny bubbles of froth at one corner. Ken was transfixed by that wickedly gleaming knife, his laden spoon suspended in mid-air by a hand trembling so much that every now and again a bean fell off and bounced across the table.

Scott had stopped chewing, his eyes swiveling from one to another of his fellow diners. The head wrangler hadn't deviated from his air of kindly concern, but his words had created an atmosphere as thick as coal gas in a mine shaft. Scott felt as though it might spontaneously combust at any second.

While Jody was allowing his innuendo to sink in, guffaws arose at the other side of the pavilion near the shave station where a couple of hands were bent over laughing to beat the band. One of them was holding aloft a handful of copper curls. "Yeehaw... sumbuddy done missed his chin an' shaved his noodle by acceedint!" Another waved a hank of red material with three buttons along one side and a brown stain dead center, hollering, "Hooeeeee... sumbuddy done blowed the ass clean outten his unmentionables!"

An inspired last-minute touch, that fresh road apple...

Jeremy O'Doul stood up abruptly, hissing "I'll have you, just see if I don't, ya gobshite! Come on, Kenny." Attempting to scramble over the bench, Kenneth Kelly pitched backwards, bench and all. His hat, which had been mashed down to his eyebrows and ears, flew off to reveal an uneven tonsure at the crown of his head. Scuttling away on all fours to retrieve the cover, he jammed it back on and struggled to his feet, assisted by his friend. Jerry pulled together his tattered shreds of dignity and began stalking away, 'poor' Kenny in tow. Suddenly he stopped and turned. _"Bastard!"_

"Well... you finally got one thing right. Go on. I've got business with Mister Lancer here. I expect to see your happy face at the top of the hill and ready to go at six o'clock."

Jerry's mouth fell open but he finally seemed to grasp he wasn't going have the last word. The two of them marched away.

Jody bowed his head to the table and banged his forehead against it, just once. _'Jesús, María y José!'_ When he sat up straight it was to find Scott's iceberg-blue eyes regarding him with a bemused expression, chin balanced on steepled thumbs.

"At least these two left with their ears intact."

"Heard about that, did ya?" Jody broke eye contact, sliding his plate away and signaling for Cochie to bring the coffeepot and an extra cup.

"Want to tell me what brought all that on?"

"Not really."

"You know, it's never a wise idea to make enemies of the men you have to work with. Especially those kinds of men. Whether or not they deserved to be publicly shamed, they're gonna come back on you."

"Maybe."

"No 'maybe' about it. And another thing... we can't afford to lose any more hands—that includes them... or you."

"They'll be back... they're too dumb to quit while they're ahead... or behind."

"I remember you now... you're the kid saved Teresa's mare... forgive me... I don't recall your name."

"What you mean is all us halfbreeds look alike..." Damn... he hadn't meant to say that. It was just that the nearness of this fair-haired patrician-featured individual with his cultivated air triggered some sort of internal defense mechanism. Clothes definitely didn't make the man in Scott Lancer's case... his were as filthy as everyone else's... but they couldn't camouflage his refined breeding and gentlemanly demeanor. How could they possibly share the same blood?

**Scott didn't take Jody's remark** too well, replying stiffly. "What I mean is that I've met almost two hundred new people in the past week. I just don't remember _your_ name."

"It's..."

"The odd thing is..." Scott continued as if he hadn't concluded his previous sentence, brows knitted in perplexity, "I feel like I _ought_ to know you... you remind me a lot of my brother. I'm not sure why..."

_Because I __**am**__ your brother? Seize the moment, Jordan... then it'll be over and done with... no more sneaking around. Just say it._ But the words wouldn't come.

Cochie arrived with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Sensing an explanation of the fight with Paco might benefit from corroboration by the cook, Jody asked him to join them. Refilling their cups and placing the pot on the table, the _cocinero_ removed himself to the other side and hiked his legs over the bench... somehow it didn't seem right to sit on the same side as the young boss, _Señor_ Scott.

"I must admit," Scott said, "I'm curious _and_ concerned. A young fellow arrived in Hawk camp the other night claiming someone called _Sombrero_ had gone berserk and cut off his ear. I presume you're the berserker?"

"That would be me. But for the record, no ears were lopped off."

"Glad to hear it. If it were true you'd be dismissed immediately, or charges filed."

"You the axe man for this outfit?"

Scott's face clouded. "I'm not here to pass judgment and fire people... I don't have that kind of clout... _yet_." Emphasizing the _'yet'_ in a way that left no doubt he expected to have it in the near future. "But I'd like to hear your side anyway. Decency and common sense dictate one shouldn't sit idly by while employees are carving up one another like Christmas turkeys."

Jody sighed. "I caught two of my team slacking off and called them on it, ordered them back to work. One didn't like it and came at me with a knife. I didn't even have mine with me. Long story short, I got it away from him and notched his ear. That's it. There weren't any witnesses. Cochie, you wanna take the floor?"

_"__Flor, Sombra?"_ The cook had been paying attention but his command of spoken English was marginal.

_"__Por favor, decir su parte al Señor Scott... en inglés."_

"Ah... _sí_..." Cochie's big drooping mustache twitched with mirth as he described how Paco had cried like an _infante_ while getting a single stitch in his damaged earlobe. _Sombra_, on the other hand, accepted six sutures with bravery and stoicism. Paco and Carlos weren't bad boys, just inclined to laziness... and Paco had a bad habit of bullying those he perceived to be weaker than himself. In his, Elberto's, opinion Paco needed to be taken down a peg or two and he certainly had been. Señor Vicente had made the decision to send Carlos to Falcon and Paco on to Hawk camp.

"What's this _Sombra_ business?" Scott questioned.

Cochie pointed across the table. "Heem. He is _Sombra_... the shadow."

"I see. It seems to me this, er... ear incident was justifiable. I see no need to take it further."

Jody stood up. "Then if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to go to work..."

Cochie got up at the same time, making a scolding face and gesturing toward Jody's arm. "Firs' feex... den you go!" His tone brooked no argument.

Standing up himself and watching the two walk away, Scott experienced a niggle of presentiment—nothing on which he could pin a sensible identification, but before he had time to dwell on it he was accosted by Cheech Madeiros, camp boss, who happily informed Primer Hijo that he'd be starting with the main herd being held a half-mile away, sorting cows with calves at heel into a separate body for the next days' branding.


	33. Chapter 33

_Chapter 33: _**NO PLACE LIKE HOME**

**Morro Coyo... ** The four o'clock stage was late by two hours due to mechanical difficulties so Jelly and Teresa killed time with a light supper in the Camas Lily Café, one of the few non-Mexican eating establishments in Morro Coyo. The sun had already dipped below the western hills by the time the stage limped in. They'd be driving home in the dark.

A dusty, cranky and cramped Murdoch was first off the conveyance. Teresa flew to embrace him. "We thought you'd never get here!"

"I was beginning to think the same. Next time I'll take a steamer packet from Frisco to Los Angeles," the rancher grumbled.

"You mean you're going back... but why...?"

"Business, my girl. Jelly... good to see you... good to be back."

"I tole Maria Elena t'have yer bath ready, boss!"

"Good man!"

Murdoch looked around in the gathering dusk for the surrey or buckboard, spying instead the formal carriage which he'd almost forgotten he owned... it'd been stored in the back of an equipment shed for years.

"You dragged that old battlewagon out for me? I'm surprised the termites haven't eaten it!"

"Had to fix a couple places what got the dryrot but she's good as new," Jelly crowed. "'Sides, didn't have no choice... all the other wagons're out at the camps an' the surrey got a broke wheel!" The surrey would've been too small anyway.

Jelly and Teresa took no notice of the robed monk and nun who'd debarked right behind Murdoch until they came to stand beside him and he made the startling announcement that these were his guests...

"Brother Paul and Sister Mary Catriona are historians and journalists collaborating on a series of articles for the Royal Geographical Society of England on behalf of the First Vatican Council of the Catholic Church. They'll be staying with us a while. Sister Mary was an unexpected addition to our party... sorry I didn't have time to notify you, Teresa," the rancher apologized, "but I trust we can accommodate her."

"Yes... yes... of course..." Teresa stuttered, her mind scampering in all directions. _How does one address a priest?_ She had no idea. She started to extend her hand then froze... should she curtsy or what? "Pleased to meet you, sir... um... padre... er... father... uh... m'am."

She was absolutely stunned when the handsome man took her hand and bowed elegantly over it with_"Enchanté, mademoiselle... _just call me Brother Paul... I'm not a priest."

He had a rich baritone voice and perfect diction. _Were the guest rooms properly readied? Did she have any decent dresses pressed and ready to wear? What do you serve for breakfast to a French priest... correction... a monk who speaks French? When was the last time the fish forks had been polished? _It took her a second or two to realize his accent wasn't French at all, but generic American with deep Southern overtones.

Jelly was equally awed, bowing stiffly, extending his hand uncertainly. "Uh... nice to meetcha, Brother Paul."

There was an awkward pause as Teresa and Jelly tried to think of what next to say or do. Murdoch had to restrain a chuckle. "Brother Paul is also Doctor John Paul LaPierre... he holds a doctorate in social anthroplogy from the University of Edinburgh... and Sister Mary, whose baptismal name is Catriona Christensen, has a masters in history and journalism."

"Pleased to meet you," Teresa tentatively thrust out a hand, which the nun shook heartily.

"Likewise."

"Shall we?" Murdoch nodded toward the elderly, outmoded carriage that had come with the _estancia_ when he'd purchased it, formerly employed by the _hidalgo's_ family for the afternoon _paseo_ after Sunday mass. It was a cumbersome vehicle and Jelly had chosen two of Lancer's eight heavy draft horses to pull it. They moved at a slower, more stately pace than the lighter animals normally used to pull the other wagons. Consequently, it took much longer to cover the twenty miles from Morro Coyo to the ranch. The carriage had no provision for luggage so it all had to be piled in the passenger compartment, leaving little room for the actual passengers who were squeezed together like sardines.

Murdoch elected to sit up on the driver's box with Jelly to catch up on the news, entrusting his guests to his ward, whose expressive nature and boundless enthusiasm would have the gentleman eating out of her hand by the time they reached home. It took a few minutes before he remembered what Paul was supposed to be. He essayed a backwards peek to see how _that_ was working out. Fine, it seemed. Teresa had regained her composure and was chatting happily.

**At the hacienda, **Maria Elena had stationed one of her sharp-eared grandsons on the road by the arch to listen out for the approach of the carriage as it was too dark to actually see. She'd been keeping supper warmed and the coffeepot poised to be ready to serve directly upon the _patrón's_ arrival. The youngster rushed in breathlessly to announce that arrival was imminent and it looked like the patron had _una monja y un monje en el carro!_

Meeting them at the port cochere, the woman was beside herself with reverence—there hadn't been a priest in the house since before Murdoch's time... and never before had a nun _and_ a monk—much less one of color—crossed the threshhold of her domain. But when _Fray Pablo_ bowed over her hand and informed her in perfect Spanish how greatly he was looking forward not only to dinner but to an authentic Mexican breakfast on the morrow, she was charmed right down to her _huaraches_ and couldn't have cared less if he were green with purple and orange polka dots. Although they'd already eaten, Jelly and Teresa joined them at the table for coffee.

Paul was in the middle of explaining that he and Sister Mary would be 'interviewing' workers in the field when Johnny came shambling in wearing his new pajamas (a present from Scott although he didn't actually wear them while sleeping) and knuckling sleep from his eyes. He'd been sleeping off and on throughout the day and had been awakened by the commotion downstairs.

They made room and Maria Elena shoved a mug of coffee under Johnny's nose. Over the rim of his mug, he cast a wary eye in his father's direction, expecting some derogatory comment about his presence at home when he was supposed to be out at one of the cow camps. None was forthcoming, Murdoch having already been apprised by Jelly of his son's predicament.

The father made an effort to stifle a show of sympathy—Johnny wouldn't appreciate pity in any form no matter how badly he was hurting. He couldn't keep the pain from his face, though. Following Murdoch's lead, the two newcomers pretended not to notice anything out of order as introductions were made. Murdoch addressed Johnny noncommitally. "Actually, I'm glad you're home..."

"Huh?"

"In the morning, right after breakfast, Brother Paul and I—and Sister Mary here—are heading out for Hawk camp, then we'll visit each of the others in turn. It's good you're here to help Teresa and Jelly..."

"Don't need no help," Jelly growled.

"Of course you don't, but I know how you hate the paperwork part. John can do the walkarounds with you and take notes." That was stretching it a bit—Jelly could in fact read and write better than Johnny, but it was a face-saver all around. Plus, it would do Johnny good—instead of lying down all day he'd be on his feet and getting mild exercise... much better for the broken rib.

"Oh. Okay then."

Johnny nodded in agreement. "Sure. I can do that. Be glad to." Which was a lie. It was the last thing he wanted to do and he hated paperwork worse than Jelly did. But at least he'd be useful.

**"****We'll need a couple of saddle horses, Jelly... **any decent ones left?" Murdoch asked casually, passing the biscuits. As if he didn't already know the answer.

"Not really, boss..." There was Major, Murdoch's mount, and Jelly's Taco. Teresa's mare, Leda, wasn't much more than an oversized pony—too small for either of these two guests. And, of course, Johnny's own Barranca.

Father's and son's eyes met and they were both thinking the same thing—weeks of loafing in a pasture wouldn't do the palomino any good. Without regular exercise or feeling a saddle on his back he'd revert to semi-wild in short order. Murdoch knew how much Johnny hated the idea of anyone else riding his precious horse, but...

"Would you mind if I borrowed Barranca for a week or two?" Murdoch asked.

"No... I guess not," Johnny answered, minding very much indeed but not in a position to say so to his father.

"I think Major would do for Paul... Doctor LaPierre. Just need one more and I don't want to leave Jelly or Teresa on foot. Any suggestions?"

Johnny hesitated, darting a glance at Teresa. "Well... there's always Toby..." Sure enough, a shadow passed over her face. Toby had been her father's horse... the one he was riding the day he was murdered. Two other _vaqueros_ had been shot off his back in the land war that followed. Now considered _mala suerte_, he'd been downgraded to harness and everyone knew better than to hitch him up to anything Teresa would be driving.

"Sound as a dollar but might need some reacquaintin' with a saddle."

"Sister Mary and I are pretty fair riders," Paul cut in. "I believe we might manage."

"That's settled, then," Murdoch said. "Jelly, would you see to it those three are saddled and ready to go in the morning, right after breakfast?"

"Sure thing, boss."

"We'll also need a pack mule. Somewhere downstairs there's a camping tent, a campaign table, a folding cot and a folding chair... if you'd bring those up, please."

Murdoch made a list of other items that needed gathering up, with an eye to 'Sister Mary's' comfort.

**With a nod to Teresa to follow,** Maria Elena had retreated to the pantry, dragging her grandson with her on the pretense of getting something off a high shelf. There, she instructed him to saddle a fast horse and make for Hawk camp with a heads-up.

"But _Abuelita_... it's nighttime!" Chucho objected, just as Teresa sidled through the door to join them. "And we don't have any fast horses left. We don't have _any_ horses!"

"Take my Leda... you're small enough she won't have any trouble carrying you..."

"But Miss Teresa..."

"No... take her. I trust you with her, Chu. Besides, I don't have time to do any riding right now and she needs the exercise... just don't run her too hard and stick to the road, no cross country, okay?"

"Shall I leave right now, _Abuelita?_"

"Of course! Oh... and be sure to tell them the _patrón_ is bringing _dos visitantes muy importantes_!"

Maria Elena was not being sneaky or disloyal... merely practical. The honor of the House of Lancer was at stake! The cook at Hawk would appreciate the forewarning so he could have an extra-special meal laid on for the _patrón_ and his very important guests. And a prime sleeping area could be raked free of rocks and padded with extra pine needles or leaves for his and his guest's bedrolls. And the best of the remounts groomed to a fare-thee-well in case the _patrón_ and the _profesor doctor_ and his _asistente_ required them. No fool, she.

While Murdoch and his guests were finishing their meal, Jelly and Teresa toted pails of hot water to both the upstairs and downstairs bathtubs and Maria Elena prepared an additional guest bedroom. Murdoch elected to use the downstairs bath so that he and Jelly could discuss plans for tomorrow while the rancher bathed. Maria Elena and Teresa excused themselves to clean up the kitchen, leaving Paul and Cat alone on the second floor with Johnny, who'd come upstairs with them to show them to their rooms.

Gentleman that he was, Paul insisted that Cat utilize the bath first although technically he was the senior guest. "Let me know when the coast's clear," he grinned before entering his bedroom and closing the door.

By ten o'clock everyone had retired for the night and quiet descended on the _hacienda_.


	34. Chapter 34

**• • • • • ****WEDNESDAY, MAY 4 • • • • •**

_Chapter 34: _**THE RELUCTANT LAWMAN**

**Green River, mid-morning...** Sheriff Valentine Crawford's morning had started out on a sour note and gone downhill from there. No sooner had he taken his seat at the breakfast table at his boarding house when Missus Livingston deposited a sealed envelope marked 'URGENT' next to his plate of sausage, eggs and grits.

"This came for you an hour ago... the Western Union boy said to tell you the lines have been down for two days so you'd better read it right away."

Sheriff Crawford opened and read the message while his deputy and fellow boarder looked on expectantly. It was from the state department of justice, advising that he was to meet a Federal Marshal Eugene Sammons who was arriving on the two o'clock stage that very afternoon. His office was to render assistance as required. That was it—no explanation given. Val grunted with annoyance. Visitations from the upper echelons of federal law enforcement were never welcome and almost always amounted to nothing more than meddling, witch-hunting and nit-picking.

"Trouble, boss?" Deputy Tom Bentfield inquired through a mouthful of Miz Livingston's heavenly angel biscuits.

"You said it!" Val grumbled his way through the rest of the meal. The first thing they had to do was get that office cleaned up some. The place was a pigsty. No doubt they'd be written up for that alone. Thankfully there hadn't been any prisoners in a week and the cells were still clean. Overhearing this, Mrs. Livingston graciously offered to lay out a special luncheon for her favorite boarders and their guest and, further, dispatched her maid Lucinda to help with the redding up.

**Warren Valentine Crawford,** sheriff of Green River, Tulare County, Eastern Federal Judicial District—himself newly neatened up above and beyond his usual presence—was waiting at the station, prepared to grin and bear it, when the stage rumbled in. US Marshal Eugene Everett Sammons of San Diego County, Southern Federal Judicial District, proved to be a bespectacled gentleman in his late fifties or early sixties, soft-spoken with a quietly authoritative air—nothing at all like the self-important overbearing appointees Val had encountered in the past.

Settled at Val's desk in the now reasonably tidy office and sipping Deputy Bentfield's freshly brewed coffee, Marshal Sammons presented his documentation and outlined the purpose of his mission: He was to locate, detain and return to San Diego for questioning—in connection with an attempted homicide—one Jordán Montero, aka Jordan Lancer... armed, dangerous and believed to be in the area. Val's first question was, quite naturally, was why? What made anyone think this fugitive would be in this specific area?

Marshal Sammons had done his homework. Before he'd left home, a quick review of the newly-released 1870 census had yielded up only one family with the surname of Lancer in the entire state of California, with registered voters to include Murdoch J., Scott G. and John M. Voter registrars were notoriously lax and/or undereducated... a 'John' might well be a 'Jordan'. _And..._ as the Lancer ranch fell within the jurisdiction of the Green River sheriff's department...

The document Val was perusing wasn't exactly an arrest warrant but it carried just as much weight. The local sheriff was bound by the duties of his office to assist the marshal, including providing transportation, escort service, introductions, identification, physical assistance in apprehension if needed... blah blah blah. Pretty much attaching the sheriff as aide to the marshal. Sammons inquired if he understood the obligations.

"Yessir... but..." Val wrinkled his brow and scratched an ear.

"Is there a problem?" the marshal prompted.

"Well sir... I know the Lancers pretty good an' there ain't no _Jordans_ that I know of. Mister Murdoch ain't got but two sons an' their names are Scott an' John. You sure you got the the right family?"

"The only things I'm sure of, young man, are death and taxes. Here... how about this?" Sammons extracted another piece of paper from his dispatch case and handed it over, watching closely for a reaction... and getting one as the sheriff's eyes fixed on the photograph.

It was a cheaply printed wanted poster, clearly not government issue, with an indistinct photograph under the headline 'WANTED!' in thirty-six point type. The usual information filled up the space below with the promise of a substantial reward if delivered alive to the sheriff's office in Chula Vista. The physical description was given as age nineteen, approximate height and weight as five feet six inches and one hundred twenty pounds. Brown skin, brown hair, brown eyes.

Val Crawford had never been a cardsharp-class poker player. His mobile, homely face under its mop of black curls could go from a fierce scowl to mournful as a hound dog to a blinding grin, but one thing it couldn't do was remain expressionless. His startled flash of recognition passed quickly, though not quickly enough to go unnoticed by the savvy marshal.

"I see you recognize this individual," Sammons said lightly. It wasn't a question. Val floundered, opening and closing his mouth several times.

"I... ah... I ain't real sure, sir... not a real good pitcher, is it?"

"Perhaps good enough that you might identify one of the Lancer boys?"

"I wouldn't like to say, sir... I guess maybe... yeah... kinda looks like Johnny, sorta..." Val could feel sweat beading on his temples. "But I ain't ever heard a him goin' by the name a Jordan... just... Johnny... an' his eyes're blue, not brown."

Sammons was nodding his head and drumming his fingers on the desktop.

"You know this John Lancer personally?"

"Sure do, yessir."

"Friend of yours, is he?"

"Yessir... real good friend."

"Sorry. Makes it tough on you, I know, but we have our jobs to do."

"Yeah... I know," Val answered miserably. "But the name... it ain't right..." he added, grasping at a straw of defense.

"It is a distinct possibility the printer got the name wrong. We have only the one establishment down in Chula Vista and that personage, though earnest and well-meaning, is not what I would describe as a journalistic prodigy. If he made only two mistakes while composing this masterpiece, then he was having an astoundingly accurate day.

As for the information wired up to to the attorney general's office in Sacramento... Sheriff, I'll be frank with you... I have no faith whatsoever in the veracity of any information coming through that nest of polecats. Details pertaining to any specific case are scanty at best and erroneous more often as not... especially in a case such as this one where information has percolated upwards through many uninformed hands from a misinformed source and filtered back down through multiple layers of incompetency bordering on sheer stupidity to land in my lap."

Sammons heaved a great sigh that fluttered the ends of his splendid handlebar mustache. The only part Val understood of this diatribe was that the marshal didn't think too highly of his superiors and placed no trust in the department of justice's ability to get _anything_ right. A man after his own heart. Marshal Sammons scribbled on the reverse of the warrant, noting the discrepancy in names, then withdrew another folded sheet from a vest pocket and handed it over.

"This purportedly is a description of the alleged perpetrator—or accomplice—in the alleged attempted murder. What're your thoughts? Have they even got the right specie? While you're reading I need to make use of your facility... damned café served stewed prunes for breakfast, damned idiots."

Marshall Sammons returned looking vastly relieved. "So, how close did they come?"

"Well... the description's about right—weight, height, coloring and all... his momma was a Mexican lady. 'Cept I think he's some taller and maybe not that skinny. And like I said, his eyes're blue."

"Wouldn't be surprised if some numbnuts didn't take it upon himself to make that correction—changing the color to brown, thinking no half-Mexican could possibly have blue eyes," the marshal snorted, making more notations. "Hell... I wouldn't be surprised if the suspect turns out to be a one-eyed, one-legged blonde Negro midget wearing a dress!"

Only slightly distracted by that vision, Val plowed on. "I ain't sure exactly how old Johnny is, twenty-one or two, I think. Positive he ain't eighteen, though. He were that age when him an' me rode togeth... I mean, when I met 'im a while back... since before he..."

" 'Rode together'... is that what you were going to say? Under what circumstances, if I may ask?"

Val really, _really_ didn't want to get into that... but if this marshal did any background checking on either him or Johnny he'd find out soon enough...

"Me an' Johnny... well, we was hired guns back then..." adding hastily, "but we don't do that no more. No sir! I took up sheriffin' an' Johnny went into the ranchin' business with his old man... Mister Lancer, I mean."

"Does this Johnny still routinely carry weapons?"

"Yeah... I mean... yessir, he does."

"Wouldn't you say, then, that that ties in with 'armed and dangerous'?"

Val shrugged, becoming more and more uncomfortable with all these questions. "Sir... every second man here in the Valley would fit that tie."

"So you've only known him since he was eighteen? 'Since before' what?"

"Since before he come to live on the ranch... like maybe three, four years...?"

"So he didn't grow up there... hasn't lived there all his life?"

"Nossir. Don't nobody know where he growed up or much a anything afore his daddy called him home last year... him an' his brother."

"Interesting," the other man mused. "I'm afraid that opens up a lot of rather unfortunate possibilities. Has Johnny used any aliases you know of?"

Val suddenly realized the small hole he'd dug for himself was rapidly expanding into a yawning pit. "Madrid," he stated in a very small voice.

"Pardon me... did you say 'Madrid'... as in _the_ Johnny Madrid?" Sammons' tone was incredulous.

"Yessir."

The fed put a hand to his face and slumped forward groaning, "I don't need this! Lord knows I don't deserve it!"

"Sir... are you alright?" Val was alarmed... he sure didn't need a federal marshal keeling over of a heart attack or apoplectic fit right there on his jailhouse floor.

"Forty years of service... two months until retirement... eight lousy weeks... and now they've sent me up against a cold-blooded killer!"

"Sir... you got it all wrong..."

The grievances continued, rising in volume. "My wife'll stand over my grave hurling curses down on my cold dead body... she was always after me to get some nice, safe job!"

"Johnny ain't like that... he wouldn't..."

"I'll never take my grandkids fishing again!" the marshal bemoaned.

"Tom... get some water, quick... go for the doctor..."

Sammons abruptly sat up, removing the hand and grinning impishly. "Gotcha! If you could only see your own face!"

"What?" Val was giddy with relief... but confused.

"Look, son... I'm about halfway convinced your Johnny isn't the right man... just like you say... even though the evidence does kind of lean in that direction. But I'm sure you understand I can't just take your word for it and turn tail. I'll have to meet up with him, face to face, and get his alibi... also statements from other folks who can support it."

"Yessir... but..."

"How far is the ranch from here? Could we ride to it today?" He was all business now.

"About thirty miles. Even if we start out right away, we couldn't get there 'til after dark..."

Sammons thought about that. "I would've liked to get this medicine show on the road as soon as possible, but another day won't make that much difference. Frankly, I've done about all the traveling I care to do for one day. If you'd kindly point me in the direction of your best hotel..."

"Sir, the nearest hotel's in Morro Coyo—ten miles from here and still twenty miles from the_ hacienda_. Why don't you put up with us tonight... I mean, at the boardin' house where Tom an' me stay? Miz Livingston sets a fine table an' I know there's a room open. Matter a fact, she's lookin' to have you there for lunch. We'd be better off gettin' our travelin' gear together today and startin' out first thing in the mornin'."

"Sounds like a plan, Sheriff. You there... Deputy..." Sammons signaled Tom Bentfield from his post near the stove.

"Tom," Tom supplied helpfully.

"Go on over to the livery stable and rent me a good saddle horse for tomorrow morning... best they have on offer for an indefinite number of days. Don't look so worried, Sheriff... DOJ's paying, I've got written authorization. It'll also cover a temporary assistant deputy here if this takes us more than a day or two."

Val gave Tom the nod to go ahead.

"I'll be needing a bedroll and saddlebags..."

"Back in the storeroom..."

"Well then. Let's go partake of your Miz Livingston's celebrated vittles. I'm famished."


	35. Chapter 35

_Chapter 35: _**SEARCHERS**

**Enroute to Osprey Camp...** On the trip up from Los Angeles the trio of searchers had refined their cover story—the journalist and his aide seeking interviews with cowboys on the job. It'd been agreed that the less communication Cat had with anyone else, the better. Murdoch insisted he wanted to put off having to explain Jody to his family or anyone else until he had a warm body to present. But so far they hadn't come up with an idea of how Murdoch could make direct inquiries about a specific individual without implying that he had a _personal_ interest in the matter.

Breakfast that morning had been a chatty affair with most of the attention centered on Paul—they'd never had an honest-to-goodness professional writer as a guest before. Teresa was in awe—but curious. Maria Elena, still in shock at having a man of the cloth at her table, had outdone herself in turning out an array of traditional ethnic dishes. Murdoch held a subscription to the quarterly journals of the Royal Geographic Society and Teresa was thrilled to bits when Paul autographed several pages containing his articles.

In answer to Teresa's query and Maria Elena's confusion as to his placement in the convoluted hierarchy of those who served the Church, Paul explained as simply as he could the differences between priests and other, unordained adherents. Although his life wasn't strictly regimented by vows and he wasn't he wasn't empowered to say the Mass or perform rites, as a 'brother' he was committed to following Christ in keeping with the tenets of Mother Church... and his service was in a ministry commensurate with his talents and abilities. Journalism happened to be his... but he might as easily have been a doctor... or an artist... or a plumber. This seemed to allay the Mexican woman's qualms about his non-religious, professional activities. (Paul—nominally Catholic—privately apologized to his Higher Power for this deception and promised to bring it up at his next confession.)

Cat had been anxious that in the clear light of day her disguise might not pass muster with the family, but she needn't have worried. Teresa was wholly absorbed with the handsome professor and Jelly was nattering on to Murdoch about every little thing that had occurred during his absence. Johnny wasn't feeling well enough to come downstairs so Maria Elena had steamed up there with a loaded tray, determined to hand-feed him if necessary.

**There was some paperwork** to attend to before Murdoch, Paul and Cat got on the road. At Murdoch's request Teresa had produced the all-important master payroll lists—one for the permanent employees and a second one for the one hundred seventy-five temps. Each name was annotated with camp assignment.

Murdoch culled the temps down to eighty-seven names he didn't know, informing the other two that these rosters weren't static. Even in just a few days some men would've quit and replacements hired on-site. There was always some measure of conflict requiring individuals to be separated, often involving trades to other camps. And there was a constant back-and-forth flow as hands were temporily seconded from one camp experiencing a lull to another having an excess of cattle to handle. They'd work a few days then go back to their original camps. Revised payroll lists only arrived with the returning supply wagons, but they had to start somewhere. Any discussion concerning their quarry had to be tabled as they couldn't very well that air that subject with Jelly and Teresa constantly popping in and out of the dining room where they were seated.

By mid-morning they had their gear assembled by the front door when the horses were brought up. Shortly afterward they headed toward Osprey camp some eight miles northwest. Murdoch said it would take two to two and a half hours at a walk to get there, including the lunch break he hadn't planned on... but Maria Elena and Teresa sure had, judging by the enticing aroma of fried chicken seeping from a canvas tote slung on the pack mule.

Paul was up on Major and Cat on Toby, who'd been no trouble at all. The wagon track they were following started out on wide grassy flats, so at first they were able to ride three abreast and converse freely. Wherever it narrowed, they fell back to single file. Halfway to their destination, they stopped for lunch at a scenic outlook on the banks of Little Fork Creek with a view toward the entrance to Cedar Canyon.

**"****I was admiring the portraits** over the sideboard in the dining room," Paul commented. "Nice grouping. I like the way you've got that one big portrait of you and the boys in the middle with their mothers on either side... at least I assume those are their mothers."

"Yes... Maria's on the left and Catherine's on the right. I commissioned a local artist to replicate them from miniatures. Did the same for Teresa's folks—that's them on either side of her portrait."

"Your sons don't look alike, do they?"

"Not in the least." Murdoch said. "They have completely different personalities as well."

"I imagine Jody favors Johnny somewhat."

"Wouldn't know, as I've never seen him."

They both looked at Cat.

"Wellllll..." Cat drawled, licking chicken grease from her fingers. "They're about the same build and coloring. Jody's maybe an inch shorter and a little thinner. His hair's straighter than Johnny's and much lighter... I'd call it potato brown..." She grinned. "His eyes are green... sometimes greenish-gold, depending on the light."

"Go on... this is very helpful," Murdoch encouraged.

"He's got a scar right here under the eye." She pointed to her face. "And three long scars that go all the way across his back. I guess you heard about that...?"

"I heard," Murdoch grimaced.

"Yeah. Ed had this flushing whip he'd modified with lead sinkers. I still don't really know what he and Jody argued about. I'd stayed home with the baby and didn't go to Pilar's funeral. Jody came home with Mama and Eli, still bleeding. I swear... when I saw what that bastard had done to him, I could've beaten him to death with his own whip..." She stopped talking then and looked away. Murdoch suspected it was because she didn't want him to see her eyes welling. Presently she sniffed loudly and went on with her narrative.

"Of course, you won't be able to see the scars on his back unless he takes his shirt off... or the latest one..." Martha said her brother'd been shot in the upper hip, below the beltline.

"They have the same low, soft voice that sort of ripples over you, you know what I mean?" Cat continued, "And your Johnny's about the most handsome man I've ever seen! I'll bet women leap right out of their drawers to throw themselves at him!"

"You don't know the half of it!" Murdoch laughed. A week ago he might've been mortified to hear a married woman saying something like that. He was really getting to like this straight-shooter of a gal who wasn't afraid to tell it like it is.

"Don't get me wrong... Jody's good-looking... but he sure isn't in _that_ category."

Gathering up the remains of their open-air luncheon, they remounted and traveled another half mile before Murdoch spoke again.

**"****Cat... what do you think he wants,** what's he planning to do?"

"Oh... I'm sure he intends to meet you... all of you... in person. He said as much. But he's cautious—he'll want to know ahead of time what he's getting into. This whole deal with Ed has nothing to do with you. Unfortunately, that's what we have to resolve first. I've heard about Johnny Madrid... surely he's wanted in more than one locale—how've you gotten around that?"

"Not easily, I'm afraid. He's probably safe as long as he stays inside California... but if he goes elsewhere... Mexico, for instance... there's always the possibility of extradition."

"Must be nerve-wracking to have to live like that... and I don't want that to happen to Jody. I have to say, Johnny didn't impress me as having a violent nature, back there at the house."

"That's just because you caught him in a downtime... he'd been injured and sleeping all day. The violence is still there, seething just beneath the surface like magma under a volcano. Doesn't take much to set him off."

"You know..." Paul interposed thoughtfully as they jogged along. "This gives me an idea for another article... a companion piece to cultural diversity among cowboys..."

"You mean you're actually going to write about... this?"

"Sure. Why not? Oh... not about the real reason we're here. The Society doesn't do exposés, after all." Paul gave a wry grin. "But those Europeans are mad keen, as they say, on anything having to do with the Wild West. Yes... a story about gunfighters would do nicely—legend of... ethos of... something along those lines. Not like one of those penny dreadfuls, glorifying gore in the Old West, but a scholarly article on the psychology of gunfighters. What draws them to that line of work. Do you think Johnny would talk to me about it? About his experiences... other men he knows... knew... when he was still... uh... doing that...?"

"John rarely brings any of that up. I think, maybe... he's not proud of it, of the things he's done... though he doesn't disclaim any of it. And it's not completely behind him, not by a long shot... no pun intended. Even though he's been with us for almost a year and I've been trying my damnedest to keep him occupied, physically and mentally, with ranch work... there've still been... incidents."

"You mean gunfights... people killed...?"

"Yes. Granted, some of it's been necessary... defending our ranch, in which case he's used his gun right alongside me and Scott and our workers. But sometimes it has nothing to do with the ranch... it's his reputation, someone from his past looking to score big and make a name. He won't—can't—back away from that kind of challenge. That's what's going to get him killed young, Paul. It breaks my heart to think about it, so I try not to."

"Is it okay with you if I approach him on the subject? It just might help lay to rest some of his demons..."

"I don't see how."

**"****In my work for the Pinkertons,** I've interviewed literally hundreds of men in prisons... and a few women. This where we profilers get our material... and according to prison doctors I've followed up with, being able to talk about the past seems to have a cathartic effect on those convicted of violent crimes. By understanding what compels these people to do what they do—and their backgrounds—we're able to formulate a psychiatric or psychologic picture of someone for whom we're searching and can make predictions as to that person's directions with some pretty astonishing accuracy."

"My son... sons... aren't convicted criminals," Murdoch bristled.

"I know that," Paul soothed, "but they don't have to be. I would venture to say that most violent people have never been and never will be convicted of anything... that doesn't make them any less destructive. Not saying Johnny is one of them, understand. But look at what we've learned about Eduardo Montero, pillar of society... yet gets away with assault and battery and rape because no one inside the family speaks up, no one outside the family knows. My point about Johnny, if I may get back to it... is that being induced to talk openly about his childhood and the factors that led to his becoming a gunman may have that cathartic effect I mentioned... might purge it from his system once and for all."

"Or not," Murdoch said glumly.

"Or not... but do you object to my giving it a try... even if I don't come up with anything publishable? I promise you and Johnny both will get to read everything before I submit it. Of course, that means I'd have to hang around a while and you know what the Chinese say about guests and fish..."

Murdoch had to laugh. "I like you. I suspect Teresa and Maria Elena like you even better. It's a big house with plenty of room. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. I'm pretty sure Scott would enjoy having a fellow scholar around. And if you can do anything with that other son of mine to improve his temperament, well... you'll have my undying gratitude. Look... there's smoke and I smell food... Osprey's just over the next rise."


	36. Chapter 36

_Chapter 36: _**TRIAL AND TRIBULATION**

**Condor Camp, morning...** Operations were in high gear and running smoothly. As Scott rolled out and made ready for this, his second actual hands-on workday, he reflected on the previous day's events. His team had four hundred mothers plus babies isolated in the permanent holding corral and another four hundred cows bunched up halfway between there and the main herd. Sorting cows with calves out from the main herd wasn't all that much work but would've been a whole lot easier with different horses...

All in all, he hadn't done too badly considering both of his iron-mouthed remounts seemed to have no other _raison d'etre_ than yanking their rider's arms out of their sockets, fighting the bit every step of the way. Their names were Ace and Diablo and Scott was convinced they both had it in for him.

Scott had automatically selected the two tallest horses in the pool... fine-looking rangy animals similar in conformation to the warm-bloods he'd taken to war with him from among his grandfather's hunters. (Sadly, two had been shot out from under him and the third confiscated by the Secesh officer who'd then remanded his wounded captive to prisoner of war camp.) Cipriano'd intimated that good looks didn't necessarily make for a good stock horse and pointed out two other animals (Cookie and Buck) better suited, he said, to what Scott would be needing.

Scott had taken one look at the unlovely pair recommended by the _segundo_ and shuddered at a fleeting vision of himself hacking around Boston Commons atop one these ill-favored beasts. No thank you! Now he was stuck with two horses very pretty on the dance floor but not worth a Confederate dollar in the field. _Should've taken Cipriano's advice._

Before Scott and Cheech had jogged out to the herd, the latter had observed the trouble the former was having keeping his mount in hand and had suggested Scott trade out the low-port globe bit he was using for a spade _and_ curb chain. Oh no! Scott couldn't even consider treating a horse that cruelly! But this morning he managed to nick himself twice while shaving because his arm muscles were quivering like calf's foot jelly and he was certain those appendages were several inches longer than they'd been the day before. _Should've listened to Cheech._

Vicente had commented that Charlemagne was too highly strung for close-in work with cattle although the part-Thoroughbred had done well enough on the fall drive when he could remain on the fringes of the herd. Better to leave Charlie behind and choose his third mount from among horses accustomed to range work and attuned to the wiles of cattle. _Should've paid attention to Vicente._

This morning at dawn Cheech had informed Scott over breakfast that his next job was learning how to haze cows out of the holding pen, leaving only the calves. How difficult could that be? Lingering over a last cup of coffee before going to collect his first mount, Scott had been intercepted by Cochie, who wanted a word with him.

Though Scott thought he'd made it clear he had no authority over camp matters, the _cocinero_ contradicted him. "_Patrón_ not here. Vicente not here. Like or no, you _jefe_. The mens, dey look to you. It is expected. You are first son of house!"

Scott protested. "Everybody here knows more than I do about running a camp. How can I tell them what to do when I'm just learning myself?"

Cochie grinned. "Sure, dey know dat. But dey also know you_ oficial militar de caballería_ and go to _universidad_."

"Is there some reason you're making a point about this?"

The grin faded and Cochie announced that his bones were telling him trouble was on the way, that it would be up to Scott to deal with it unless Vicente returned or his father arrived... and, oh... by the way... the _patrón_ was back from his travels and over in Hawk camp with two companions...

"So I've heard... what trouble?"

Cochie went on to explain the current state of affairs while Scott marveled over how it was possible for one man to keep track of everything going on, as though possessed of multiple pairs of eyes and ears that saw all and heard all...

**The previous evening,** having gone twenty-four hours without sleep, the head wrangler and the one called Ronnie had foregone supper and fallen directly onto their bedrolls fully dressed and completely exhausted. Jerry had ignored them the entire day, which was easy as all three wranglers were kept busy shuttling horses back and forth. There was absolutely no time to trade insults, threats or even glowers. Five animals hadn't passed shoe inspection so had been picketed aside until someone could attend to them. After supper the wrangler called Jimmy had politely asked Ken, the smaller Irishman, if he'd mind the remuda for an hour or two so Jimmy could help their budding blacksmith at the forge, but the redhead had only sneered and spit on the ground before walking away.

_Sombra_ Joey and Ronnie were still suffering shift changeover lag. Neither was on his best game today. In addition, _Sombra_ Joey had only this morning got around to letting Cochie replace his torn stitches and at the latter's insistence was wearing a leather cuff to protect his forearm—not only uncomfortable but hampering flexibility in his roping arm.

By now it was all over camp how _someone_ had sliced the seat out of Jerry O'Doul's drawers while he slept. He'd been promising to all who'd listen how he was going to pound that scrawny halfbreed piece of shite wrangler to a bloody pulp and take his scalp to boot. Cochie predicted that the big Irishman—with the cunning of a predator circling prey in a weakened state—was biding his time to exact retribution. They'd best keep an eye on him, Cochie warned, or someone was going to get hurt.

**As a consequence of this discussion,** Scott was on higher alert than he otherwise would have been when he went to collect his ride right at shift change, paying close attention to facial features and body language when formally introduced to Jimmy Hanson and Ronnie Goldman. They were kids... young boys with unmarked, unlined cherubic faces. Scott suddenly felt old and weary... and sad. In the war he'd commanded companies of children just like these... and he hadn't been very much older himself. Jimmy and Ronnie bloomed with the exhuberance of youth and high spirits. Obviously they both were well-fed, well-adjusted boys from happy homes to which they'd be returning when roundup was over.

O'Doul's and Kelly's faces, on the other hand, were etched with their years and hard lives, and their slump-shouldered posture advertised their disappointment with life in general. Scott actually felt sorry for them even as, sullen-faced and sulky, they were holding their own privately whispered exchange at some distance. One could smell the belligerence rolling off them in addition to the literal reek of unwashed bodies. Cochie was probably right. They were up to no good.

The head wrangler was an enigma. Again Scott was struck by the eerie resemblance to his brother—the same body type, wide shoulders tapering to narrow hips; the same easy panther-like grace in the way he moved, despite the limp; the same softly-modulated speech pattern. Johnny looked a little older, more mature, than his chronological age... but that was to be expected—he'd gone directly from street-tough urchin to case-hardened young adult gunfighter. Of course, Scott reflected, he'd done pretty such the same—from nursery to classroom to young gentleman of leisure, from there to war and back to scholar and gentleman. Neither one of them had been allowed to experience what should have been their carefree teenage years.

This _Sombra_ Joey may look like a teenager, but his actions and speech were those of an older man. Both he and Johnny exhibited the sort of defensive reserve a man constructs when he has something to hide. Scott was still mulling all this over as he and Charlie clattered over the bridge and around the pavilion toward the pens.

**Scott's next tutor,** Silvio Pino, quickly demonstrated the value of a well-trained cutting horse. Charlie didn't fall into that category. Scott spent the next hour ineffectually chasing cows around in circles, making a mental note to acquire a good cutting horse before next roundup.

By midmorning they had four hundred panicky calves bawling to get out of the pen and four hundred distraught cows bellowing to get in. The branding station was fired up and ready to go, the ground crew standing by. Silvio's co-tutor, Nestor Calderón, eyed Scott's skittish mount and flat out told him to get another horse.

Trotting Charlie up to the pick-up point on the rise overlooking the remuda, Scott joined three hands with saddles at their feet, exclaiming and gesticulating at something happening down in the pasture. Instead of peacefully grazing, most of the horses were frenziedly milling about, snorting and tossing heads. A lone rider was zigzagging along the northern perimeter of the herd, gamely attempting to keep animals from banding up and making a break for it.

The commotion taking place dead center of the pasture appeared to be a fight in progress between the other two day wranglers, one of them much larger than the other. At this distance Scott couldn't make a positive identification but was sure the bigger one had to be Jerry.

"What's going on... uh... _¿Qué pasa?_" Scott inquired of the closest man. The _vaquero_ replied in broken English that they'd been smoking and waiting for their horses to be brought up when _Sombra_ Joey, who'd ridden down to fetch them because the _irlandés estúpido grande_ was ignoring them, suddenly diverted from his path over to the other man and said something to him. As they were looking on the bigger man had lashed _Sombra_ Joey across the face with his quirt. The two had grappled and fallen off their mounts, disappearing into the crush of horses surrounding them.

Why hadn't they tried to break it up, Scott asked.

The _vaqueros_ stared at him as if he'd lost his mind and all three started babbling at once. And miss the entertainment? Not only was it unmannerly to interfere in a fistfight, they had better sense than to get involved when one of the combatants was an Anglo.

Scott briefly thought about pulling rank and ordering the three back to work... but... well... they couldn't without their horses, could they? Reluctantly he urged Charlie down the hill and into the fray. By the time they'd pushed and shoved their way to the clearing in the middle of the herd, Jerry O'Doul was laid out, knocked silly, and the head wrangler was sitting on the ground with his elbows on his spread-apart knees, head in hands. Scott dismounted and walked a few steps over to him.

**"****You okay?"**

"Yeah. Gimme a sec..." Jody looked up then. Blood leaked from his nose and welled from a long,thin stripe on the left side of his face extending from nose to ear.

Scott nodded toward O'Doul. "Dead?"

"Nah. He'll come around in a minute or two." Jody pushed himself up to his feet and stood unsteadily, using his bandanna to wipe his nose.

"How did this start?"

"Called him twice on using a whip. Aimed to take it away from him."

"The spectators up there say he hit you first."

"Doesn't matter who did what first."

"I imagine he had it coming. What can I do to help?"

"Help me get my horse."

"Sure. C'mon up."

Scott remounted and gave Jody a hand up behind him.

It wasn't hard to spot two saddled horses in the sea of bare backs. When they reached Cookie, Jody transferred. "If you'd catch up Jerry's... he should be awake now."

"You're pretty beat up... maybe you'd better let Cochie have a look at you and rest for a while."

"No. Can't leave Ronnie on his own. And there's men waiting..."

"I can take over for you... just pass the word so Cheech can get another roper..."

"No... I'm good... just get Jerry's horse."

"How do you know which ones they want?"

"My job to know." With that Jody clicked to Cookie once and they oozed away through the sea of horses like a hot knife through butter.

**Scott looked around** for one or the other of his remounts but couldn't find either of them. As most of the animals were bays or chestnuts with white facial and leg markings, Scott wondered not for the first time how the wranglers could distinguish one from another. By the time he ascended the rise and stripped the saddle and bridle from Charlie, sending him to rejoin the herd with a slap on the rump, Jody had arrived with three remounts on catchropes which he handed over to the _vaqueros_.

Scott was about to ask for Ace to brought up when Jody slid off his gelding, which Scott now recognized as the ugly roan he'd rejected.

"Take this one."

"He's... ah... not one of mine."

"He is today."

"Who says?"

"Cookie's the best cutting horse on the ranch. Give him a loose rein and he'll do the work. You just ride."

"What if I don't want him?"

Jody shrugged. "If you prefer cramps..."

"How do you...? Oh... I suppose Cochie told you..." Having to grip reins so tightly yesterday that he'd squeezed the blood from his fingers, Scott had been unable to sleep due to unending severe cramps in his hands. He'd had to wake up Cochie in the middle of the night to beg for liniment.

"I'll take him." Scott already had the bridle in his hand and Jody shook his head.

"No bit. Gotta ride him with the hackamore he's already wearing... got a mouth like velvet. Easy to handle long as you don't saw his mouth."

"Okay." Scott saddled up and mounted while Jody held Cookie's head.

"One other thing..." Jody said, handing up the reins with what Scott could have sworn was almost a smile. _Almost._

"Make sure that off-rein is snugged before you get on or off. If you're leading, hold him by the head at arms length. Don't let him get behind you. He's bad to bite and he'll take a hunk outta anything he can reach if he gets a chance."

_One other thing? _"Thanks for the warning."

"Don't walk too close behind him, either... and keep an eye on his near hind leg. He's a kicker... backwards _and_ forwards just like a cow."

"I suppose he bucks like a bronco as well?" Scott asked dryly.

"No... he don't buck. But he _will_ lay down on you if he thinks you're not paying attention. I'd stay away from low-hanging limbs, too."

"I see... easy to handle. Uh huh." Scott rode off wondering what _Sombra_ Joey considered a _difficult_ horse.


	37. Chapter 37

**• • • • • ****THURSDAY, MAY 5 • • • • •**

_Chapter 37: _**WHAT'S IN A NAME?**

**Osprey Camp, morning...** Murdoch, Paul and Cat had made the rounds the evening before, surreptitiously studying each brown face they encountered within the appropriate age range. Murdoch enthusiastically glad-handed everyone, committing new names to memory. Paul approached anyone he could catch not doing something, asking innocuous questions while his 'aide' industriously scritched notes on her clipboard. Some of the men were happy to contribute, others not interested in doing so... but at least he could get close enough for a good squizz and a name to check off _his_ list while they were objecting and backing away. When the trio regrouped, weary and more than ready to turn in, they were dismayed to find they'd accounted for less than half of the rostered crew at this camp. The rest were still cold camping out in the hills somewhere.

Daybreak found them seated at a makeshift trestle table over by the chuckwagon, waiting their turn at breakfast—Murdoch had decreed the 'working men' be served first. They'd reached the unhappy conclusion that the only way to deal with the rest of the men was to intercept them one at a time as they came in to eat. Although anxious to move along, they were resigned to having to hang around the chuckwagon the rest of the day.

Spread out on the table was the master list Teresa had transcribed from the two original hire lists and the breakdowns by camp assignment. Almost as an afterthought Paul had requested those two original lists—one rendered in an elegant cursive and the other clumsily block printed. It was these that he was now studying. Murdoch could almost hear mental gears grinding.

"Who made these out?" Paul queried.

Murdoch craned his head for a look. "One of those is Scott's handwriting... the other's John's... he can read and write but not very well and often transposes letters."

Paul's forefinger was tapping thoughtfully on the table. "There has to be a clue in here somewhere... it's just not leaping out at me..." There were, of course, no 'Jodys' or 'Jordans' or 'Monteros' to be found... not they were expecting to find any.

**Open conversation was hampered** by the lurking presence of an assistant cook who'd been stationed by the _cocinero_ in case the _patrón_ and his guests required any more coffee.

"Can't we get rid of him?" Paul murmured.

"Milk," Cat muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Tell him your assistant has a delicate constitution and requires milk with her coffee."

"Where do you expect him to get milk?"

Cat looked up with an evil grin. "Why... from one of those two or three hundred cows over yonder..." She jerked her chin in the direction of the herd.

"Don't be ridiculous. Those aren't dairy cows... none of them are going to stand quietly while..."

Murdoch got it, barely containing a snort of amusement. He beckoned to the assistant and made his request. The man nodded unhappily and trotted off with a small tin pail in hand.

"It'll take two men to rope one of those animals and hold her steady while that one tries to squeeze some milk out of her. He'll be awhile..."

All three laughed and returned to their puzzle. Paul explained that most people on the run invariably chose aliases that are variations on their real names or initials, or very often those of family members. Producing a clothbound notebook from his satchel, he announced that he'd earlier compiled yet another list—of possible aliases their quarry might be using. There were two pages' worth, what with everyone in the Montero family having those impossibly convoluted names, many of them not gender-specific. Handing Scott's list to Murdoch and Johnny's to Cat he said they were going to cross-check these possible pseudonyms with actual names.

"And then we're going to cross-check... again... against these." Paul slid a sheet of doodled-on foolscap over to the rancher. "Do you know the derivation of the name 'Jody'?"

Murdoch furrowed his eyebrows. "No. Why should I?"

"No reason," Paul explained. "The etymology is English if it's a diminutive of 'Joseph,' 'Jude' or 'Judah'. Or Hebraic if it's short for 'Jordan'. I've listed all the variations."

"This is exhausting!" Murdoch complained, doing a quick rundown. "None of these are on these lists! There must be a better way. What makes you so sure he's here?"

"We're _not_ sure... but this is as good a place as any to start looking..." Paul shrugged.

"Seems like a colossal waste of time!"

Cat laid a cool, consoling hand on Murdoch's. "Look at it as an exercise in the process of elimination... at least we're ruling out where he _isn't!_"

Once more they bent to the frustrating task of trying to suss out what alias Jody might have selected... assuming he was even among the hirees in the first place. It wasn't until mid-morning that they achieved a break-through.

**Paul had squinched** his eyes closed to relieve the strain and was pinching the bridge of his nose... "Cat, when Jody's speaking English, does he do so with a Latino accent?"

"Not that I've ever noticed. His is a sort of generic coastal accent, like mine, I suppose... or like Johnny's."

"All right. Suppose someone's giving you his name, and you're perceiving that person as either Mexican or Indian, and he gives as his name any one of diminutives I've listed—all of which are _uncommon_ names, by the way... what common _American_ name might you hear instead? And write down? Murdoch?"

The rancher hesitated for only a few seconds. " 'Joe' or maybe 'Joey'?"

"I agree," Cat said.

A quick scan of the lists revealed three 'Josephs', four 'Josés', four 'Joes' and six 'Joeys'. "Let's concentrate on the 'Joes' and 'Joeys' for the time being," Paul suggested. "Two are assigned to this camp and we can already write off one of those—Joey Burghoff, definitely not our man. The other one is Joey Morales and we've already interviewed we're waiting for the rest of the men to show up, let's examine last names."

The next camp list they looked at was Eagle, with a Joe Jackson. Hawk had a Joey Montoya. Condor claimed Joey Atkins, Joe McCullough, Joey Marrón and Joe Melendez. Falcon had a Joe Baker and a Joey Lancero. Murdoch pounced on that last one, crowing "That _has_ to be the right one!"

"No! Too obvious... he's smarter than that," Paul said firmly, slapping the Falcon list in frustation.

"At the rate we're going—interviewing everybody—it'll take more than a week to do all five camps," Murdoch said.

"Wait!" Cat exclaimed. "Brain fart!"

"Excuse me?" Murdoch said, instantly diverted.

"Bear with me here, Murdoch. Paul... didn't you mention earlier that using a middle name... or a mother's maiden name... is a frequent ruse?"

"Yes... because it's easily remembered." Paul was nodding affirmatively.

"Marín is Pilar's maiden name, as well as Jody's middle name... Johnny could well have misheard 'Marín' as 'Marrón', and written it that way."

"But... marrón means 'brown', doesn't it?" Murdoch queried.

Paul grinned. "It means other things, too... crayfish, a Spanish chestnut... and, in Cuba, a runaway slave."

Cat said, "Betcha a dollar to a bent hatpin Johnny wrote down what he _heard_—phonetically, concluding Jody's last name as being the Spanish version of 'Brown'. Ergo, Joey Marrón at Condor."

"She might be right," Murdoch said to Paul. "Johnny probably didn't bother to ask him to spell his name because so few of these men are literate. What's your take on this theory? Could we be that lucky... to get it right on the first try?"

"It's possible, Murdoch. Sometimes things do shake out that way. Not often, so don't get your hopes up too high, you two."

"Cat, what are your thoughts?" Murdoch asked.

"Could I see the map again, please?"

"Sure." From the leather messenger bag Murdoch extracted a folded green ledger sheet on the back of which he'd drawn a crude map of the ranch and its salient features, including the _hacienda_ and the five cow camps. He unfolded it and spread it on the table, turned around so that the girl could peruse it. Distances had been annotated in pencil.

"Is this to scale?"

"Not hardly... but the mileage is accurate."

Cat studied it for a few moments before looking up. "My first instinct would be to pack up and go immediately to Condor camp, where this Joey Marrón is supposed to be working..."

Murdoch sighed. "I thought about that, too... but it's probably better we follow the plan and visit the next two camps in turn. We don't want to arouse suspicions. Believe me, I can't step behind a bush to answer a call of nature that the news doesn't travel ahead of me. You'd think my people had some kind of wireless telegraph. There's no way I can go anywhere on this ranch without everyone being warned so they have time to tidy up and and get their patches ship-shape before I get there."

"It's good to be the king, isn't it?" Paul laughed.

"Sometimes. It can also be a huge nuisance when no one wants to admit to anything being out of order. They do their damndest to cover up anything they think I might find displeasing. And I have to pretend I don't notice."

"Doesn't bother you, knowing your employees are hiding things from you?"

"Not usually... I know they do it to keep me from being worried, not so much to protect themselves. I can afford to let little things slide... like a cow gone missing. Something really important—like a death or outright rustling... those things they're quick to report."

Cat steered them back to the subject, pointing to the elbow-shaped Oak Ridge enclosing Cedar Canyon. "Is there a pass through here that would take us to Falcon camp?"

"On horseback, yes... not by wagon."

"Does it matter which direction we travel—clockwise to Falcon and Condor... or counterclockwise to Eagle, Hawk and _then_ Condor?"

"I don't suppose it does..."

"Well, then... it seems to me we could save time and quite a few miles by cutting through Cedar Canyon to Falcon. How long of a ride is it?"

"Two, two and half hours at most."

"So if we left here around lunchtime, we could roll into Falcon by mid-afternoon, interview the two Joes there plus a couple of others to make it look good... spend the night and ride to Condor on Saturday morning. If it turns out I'm wrong about Joey Marrón, we still have two more camps to check."

Murdoch rubbed his chin. 'Yes... that would work... if you folks are up to that much riding."

"I'm sure we'll manage," Cat said. "Although there's no need to rush on my account... if he's there, he'll still be there. No one knows who we really are except Ray and the Camerons."

How wrong they were.


	38. Chapter 38

_Chapter 38: _**AN IMPORTUNATE PATIENT**

**Lancer Hacienda, late morning... **John Lancer wasn't the _worst_ patient Teresa O'Brian had ever had—that would be Murdoch—but the son was surely running a close second.

When Teresa'd not been conducting classes she'd been alternating between solicitously hovering over Johnny and issuing pronouncements on what he could or couldn't do until the ruptured intercostal ligaments healed. What aggravated him the most was that in every instance where she'd told him not to do something but he'd gone ahead and done it anyway, the exquisite agony in his back proved she was right. He was thoroughly annoyed that Doctor Sam not only agreed with the girl but added even more restrictions.

It'd been barely a week since Johnny'd incurred this latest injury though it felt like six—not only to him but to everyone obliged to put up with him. Most times he was able to bounce back, mentally if not physically, from short-term incapacitation... long confinements, however, invariably found him backsliding into a well of self-pity. At first he'd been content to spend the days in lazy immobility with the women of the house waiting on him hand and foot, but such inactivity wasn't in his nature. To Johnny, 'long confinement' meant anything longer than twenty-four hours.

Teresa was well aware that one of the most important factors in convalescent care was keeping up the patient's spirits. Trying to make allowances for his discomfort, she'd been devoting every minute she could spare from her already busy schedule to aid Johnny's recovery. But the more she and Maria Elena pandered to him, the more restive he grew.

Johnny'd learned right quick that Teresa in nurse mode wasn't the same sympathic soul she was in sister mode, nor the gentle but firm educator who kept order in her classroom with a raised eyebrow and a quietly issued remonstrance. Nope. Nurse Teresa was a tyrant who dispensed commands and expected instant obedience. Mindboggling how such a small woman could be so bossy and demanding.

**This morning Johnny Madrid Lancer **was in a provocative mood... beginning with Teresa whaling away at his bedroom door, ordering him to rise and shine, shave and dress for their pre-breakfast constitutional. She'd been making him walk four or five times a day and do some mild stretching exercises. Yes, he knew he needed it but that didn't make him any happier about having to do it under duress.

"Go away."

"My foot! Don't make me have to come in there and drag you out of bed by your heels!"

He grinned up at the overhead lamp fixture...

"John Lancer! Are you listening to me? I'm counting to ten now... ONE..."

...envisioning the five-foot two-inch fireball...

"TWO!"

...resolutely latching onto his ankles...

"THREE!"

...and physically hauling his naked ass off the bed.

"FOUR!"

The grin faded as he realized she _could_ and _would_...

"FIVE!"

...or at least snatch all the covers off him.

"SIX!"

It wasn't like she hadn't aready seen everything he had...

"SEVEN!"

...but those times he'd been unconscious and spared the embarrassment.

"EIGHT!"

He was idly curious what would happen...

"NINE!"

... if he _wasn't_ unconscious... But today wasn't the day to find out. Johnny rolled over and sat up too quickly. The knot of pain shooting up his spine into his neck and shoulders reminded him why he was wallowing in bed in the first place.

"I'm up! I'm up! Gettin' up right now! Puttin' my pants on..."

"I'll see you downstairs for walkies in fifteen minutes." Footsteps trailed away down the hall.

**Johnny was already in disgrace** because the other morning while Teresa was in class he'd snuck out to the pasture to visit Cobre, a yearling he was bringing along as Barranca's alternate. The copper-colored sorrel with flaxen mane and tail, still too young for serious backing, was at this stage more pampered pet than future saddle horse. They'd played 'chase me'—he'd pretended to pursue the horse prancing just out of reach. Then he'd turned in the other direction and the colt chased _him_, bumping him in the rear, more than once sending him sprawling in the grass. Sure, that had _hurt_ and he'd been unable to stand up straight for hours... and Teresa'd blistered his ears. Okay... so it was a stupid thing to have done but he'd just had to _get out!_

After that Nurse Teresa had assigned minders to ensure her patient didn't wander off-limits... which meant out of sight or anywhere near the horses. Three of them were Jelly, Chucho and Bebo (Maria Elena's thirteen- and eight-year-old grandsons). Probably others he didn't know about.

All through breakfast Johnny and Teresa'd sniped at each other until Maria Elena threatened to thrash them both with her rug beater. After breakfast Teresa'd set him to work at the dining room table, polishing silver with one of the housemaids. At first this had been a great affront to his dignity, but after a while he decided it wasn't so bad... getting to spend time flirting with Inés Mechoso. They were soon joined by Nereida Dominguez, who'd been on her way upstairs with an armload of bedlinens and wasn't about to be outdone by Inés. Then along came Ivelisse Guevarra, who'd been sweeping off the side porch. Pass up an opportunity to get up close and personal with the fabulous Juanito? Hah!

Johnny was in his element, entertaining three fresh-faced nubile young things whose uncorseted bosoms jiggled ever so nicely when they giggled. A lot of polishing was going on but not of silver. He'd rarely been_ that_ incapacitated.

In the kitchen Jelly and Maria Elena were shouting at each other over disposition of the doe antelope Jelly had bagged the day before. Some thirty years ago a much younger Jelly had served as trail cook and so fancied himself an expert in culinary arts. The bone of contention was how much _cominos_ was too much and whether or not to add _jalapeños_ to the stew. If they hadn't been making so much noise over who had the bigger soupspoon they might've been alerted to the squeals of glee seeping under the closed doors connecting the entry hall to the kitchen and dining room.

Likewise, the merrymakers were unaware of Teresa's approach until the doors flew open and slammed against the wall, rattling all the unpolished silver on the table. There was Johnny, with each arm around a chambermaid. The third girl was draped over his shoulder, tickling his chest and fiddling with his Saint Gabriel Possenti medallion. Teresa glared. The girls gasped. Johnny grinned sheepishly after an abortive attempt to look contrite.

"Busted!"

Nereida and Ivelisse scurried away like mice, hurriedly adjusting their bodices. Inés lazily unplugged her considerable assets from the back of Johnny's neck, picked up an ornate silver goblet and a rag, and reseated herself with a sigh and a disparaging glance at the party pooper. Johnny was dismissed from the silver-polishing detail.

**So now here sat a disconsolate Johnny,** immured at the big desk in Murdoch's 'study'—which was really just a corner of the greatroom rather than a separate room—where for the last forty minutes Teresa'd been pounding into his ears the basics of double-entry bookkeeping.

"I don't understand this! You know I ain't got the schoolin' for this, _chiquita!_" Johnny whined over the big green ledger book parked under his nose, putting as much 'poor pitiful me' into it as he dared.

"Road apples!" Teresa swore. "It's not that hard... this column and that column have to equal the last one... if they don't, then you've made either an addition or subtraction error and you do that part over..." She used her best classroom voice and simple directions. Debits and credits could come later. Maybe guilt tripping would have an effect. Didn't work with children but might with this recalcitrant adult.

"Look... it's not fair for Murdoch and Scott to have to do this by themselves all the time. This is part of the obligations of ownership and management..."

They were interrupted by a knock on the door followed by Bebo's curly head peeking in. "_Abuela_ say Señor Speck here. You come kitchen now?" Although there was a grand view of grounds and the drive leading from the welcoming arch to the front of the hacienda, neither Teresa nor Johnny'd noticed a rider coming in. Johnny too hastily jumped up, wincing but relieved at any excuse to escape paperwork... which sure wasn't as much fun as polishing silver.

**Forty-year-old Speck Johnson** was the delivery 'boy' for Western Union in Morro Coyo. Twenty years ago he'd been been a top hand and legendary broncbuster until a bad landing had robbed him of most of what limited brainpower he'd had to begin with. He was a living reminder that it took just one instance of coming off a horse the wrong way to forever alter a man's life and livelihood. Speck lived in town now, doing odd jobs and carrying messages to outlying locations as he could still ride well enough, providing he had a tractable mount.

Speck was seated at the table with a tall glass of buttermilk and a plate full of ham and cheese biscuits. He was a good-natured easy-going fellow, welcome in households everywhere even though the news he brought very often wasn't. On the table in front of him were two yellow envelopes, face down.

"Howdy Miz Tessa, howdy Mister Johnny!"

"Howdy your own self, Speck." Johnny slid into the vacant chair nearest the envelopes. "You keepin' alright?" He eased out a hand toward the envelopes.

"Fine as frog hair, Mister Johnny." Speck's bigger hand stopped the forward advance.

"Them's fer Mister Murdoch. Gotta hand 'em over personal-like."

"Murdoch ain't here, Speck. He's out on the range. Don't know when he'll be home."

"Dern. Means I gotta come back tomorrer."

"Well... he won't be home then, either," Teresa observed. "If you'll just leave them with us we'll have someone carry them out to the camp right away."

"No'm. Gotta put 'em inta his hands. Mister Quinn said so."

It seemed no amount of entreaty was going to deter Speck from his duty. Johnny tossed a 'what now?' look at Teresa, who was twiddling her thumbs in exasperated thought. Apparently she was having an idea as a crafty expression stole across her face. The last biscuit was disappearing, chased by the dregs of buttermilk. Speck burped.

"Oh... 'scuse me!"

"Speck..." The girl fluttered her eyelashes at the messenger, knowing how much he loved critters of all kinds, especially horses, and was easily distracted by feminine wiles. "We have a new palomino filly... just two weeks old. Her name is Belle. Wouldn't you like to see her? And some Walker hound puppies almost weaned. Cute as the dickens. Don't you want to see them also?"

Speck's face lit up. "Yessum. Sure would!"

"Jelly will be happy to take you over to the stable, won't you, Jelly?"

"I'm kinda busy here..."

"Not _that_ busy. Besides, you can tell him that _looooonnng_ story about how Belle came into the world... Everyone knows you're the _very best story teller_..."

Jelly got the hint. "Oh... er... sure... come on, Speck."

Speck got up and lumbered away, forgetting the envelopes on the table.

"Take your time, boys!" Teresa sang out after them, stopping Johnny just in time before he tore open the first envelope.

"No! He can't know we opened them!" One of the envelopes was marked 'URGENT. MURDOCH LANCER. EYES ONLY.' The other was addressed as 'PERSONAL PRIORITY. MURDOCH LANCER. HAND DELIVER.'

"How're we..."

"Keep your shirt on!"

Maria Elena already had water boiling in a saucepan. Using tongs, Teresa held the first envelope over it until the steam loosened the glue and she was able to withdraw the flimsy. Handing it over to Johnny she steamed open the second envelope. When she returned to the table, Johnny's face had gone ashen. Wordlessly he handed the telegram over to her.


	39. Chapter 39

_Chapter 39: _**LEARNING CURVES**

**Condor Camp, late morning...** Heeling was yet another task nowhere near as easy at it appeared when Nestor and Tomás Peña were doing it. It didn't help that the calves were scampering in all directions and leapfrogging one another. Scott noted, while Nestor patiently instructed him in what to aim for and how to throw the loop, that Tomás was averaging a calf every two to three minutes and getting both hind legs every time. Scott knew he was slowing down the entire team but this is what Murdoch had sent him to learn and he was jolly well going to master the technique.

When Nestor figured he'd done all he could, he joined his partner and left Scott grinding his teeth in frustration as loop after loop found nothing but dirt. Part of his problem—although it took a while to figure it out—was that he was trying to direct Cookie instead of letting the horse choose the victim. Another hour went by with Scott growing more and more frustrated. Damn it all! He'd led men into battle, he'd guided seventeen-hand foxhunters over impossible barriers others detoured around... and he couldn't catch one lousy baby bovine!

Whatever turf had existed inside the pen had long since been churned into friable dirt from which arose clouds of fine dust particles that hung suspended in the air—a pall that coated cows, calves, horses and riders alike until everything and everyone was a uniform grayish brown color. Add to that the heat of the day, the flies, the plaintive moos of four hundred cows united in anxiety topped by the higher pitched squeals of their young ones, and the mingled scents of manure, methane, blood and scorched hair and flesh... and one had a scene straight out of Dante's _Inferno._

Nestor rode by and told him to take a lunch break. Scott welcomed the chance to dismount and dunk his hot, sweaty head in a temporary trough. Lunch turned out to be a cup of scalding coffee and cold biscuits stuffed with cold sliced ham which he barely had time to choke down before being recalled. While eating he recalled _Sombra_ Joey's words about giving the horse his head and decided to try it. Might as well... nothing else was working.

He should have listened to Joey in the first place. Giving his full attention to his rope instead of his mount he started catching a leg here and there, and after he'd managed to drag out five calves he made his first successful two-hind-legs capture. What he wasn't prepared for was Cookie's deciding to do a little free-style grandstanding, hunkering down on his hindquarters and splaying his front legs as if there was a full-grown steer at the end of the rope. Scott rolled backwards off his rump, doing a complete somersault and ending up sitting on the ground. Cookie meanwhile trudged out of the pen on his own, riderless, dragging the calf behind him. When the flankers took over, the horse turned around and sauntered back to his thoroughly humiliated rider. Nestor and Tomás and the ground crew politely pretended they hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. Scott collected his hat and climbed back aboard.

**As the shadows lengthened,** Nestor advised Scott to go and get his other remount. Groaning inwardly at the thought of having to deal with one of those hardmouths again Scott was surprised when _Sombra_ Joey again presented him with a different horse than the one he requested. It was the other reject.

"This one's Buck. And he does... for about two minutes. Then he'll settle. Not as good as Cookie but he'll do for you."

"Any other foibles I need to know about?"

"Nah. After two minutes he'll be fine."

And he was, but Scott was sure he'd loosened some teeth in the process as he pulled the buckskin up close to where Joey had stuck around watching, just in case.

"How are you doing? Holding up okay?" Scott asked, gesturing at the leather-cuffed arm.

Jody considered the question. His unwitting half-brother seemed to be genuinely concerned about the state of his health. He was, in fact, not feeling too chipper. The whiplash across the face, while not deep, still stung. Jerry had managed to deliver a few good wallops to his midsection before being diverted by a well-aimed rock to the noggin, so Jody was bruised and aching from that. His hip was bothering him more than it had been. The stitches under the leather cuff were itching furiously—that at least was a _good_ sign, meant the wound was healing.

Jody had half-expected the temporarily incapacitated Irishman to either quit on the spot or lay out the rest of the day. He'd done neither, instead resuming his duty as if nothing had happened. Granted, one eye was swollen shut and his nose looked like an overripe raspberry, but he was able stay in the saddle. When Jody told him to switch places with Ronnie on perimeter patrol, he didn't even argue about it.

The Jerry O'Douls of this world aren't the forgiving and forgetting sort, Jody knew. He'd have to be extra observant from now on.


	40. Chapter 40

_Chapter 40: _**MISCONSTRUED MESSAGES**

**Lancer Hacienda, midday...** 'FED MAR HEADED YOUR WAY W/WARRANT JMLANCER/MONTERO. FORCED TO PRODUCE INFO PER COURT ORDER. REGRETS. RAY.'

The sending address was Los Angeles. In context, FED MAR could only mean federal marshal. Who were Montero and Ray? The message was dated two days ago... why the delay in receiving it?

"Johnny..." Teresa began tentatively. "What's all this about? What have you done?"

"I ain't done anything! Last time I was down that way was nine months ago. An' I don't know no Montero. Who the heck is Ray?"

"I have no idea. Read the next one out loud while I copy this one." Teresa grabbed the notepad from the sideboard where Maria Elena kept it to make out her grocery lists.

'PINK FRIEND ADVISES CAUTION AND DISTANCE. QUARRY REGARDED ARMED AND DANGEROUS. FED MAR SAMMONS TO OBTAIN BACKUP LOCAL SHERIFF. TREY.'

"This don't make any sense. Pink friend? Sammons I think I heard of... sounds familiar, but who's Trey?"

"Trey is Murdoch's friend in Los Angeles... Mister Cameron... the one he went to visit."

"Why would he think I'm armed an' dangerous? Unless Murdoch told him that... but why would he?"

"Do you think it's some kind of code?"

"No... seems clear enough otherwise. There's a federal marshal on his way here with a warrant for my arrest... an' it looks like he 'spects to have to come in shootin'. Also seems like Murdoch's friend sent this as a warnin' to watch my back an' clear out. He don't even know me."

"This has to be some sort of mistake, Johnny... I'm sure Murdoch can straighten it out."

"Oh yeah? How many J. M. Lancers around here you know of?"

**Teresa could feel bile rising** in her throat as she copied the second missive. Carrying the two messages to the desk in the study, she carefully reglued the flaps and replaced the messages on the kitchen table. She had just rearranged herself in her seat when Jelly and Speck returned, the latter to collect the envelopes, give his thanks to Maria Elena and make his goodbyes. He was taking his own sweet time in getting gone, Teresa agonized, resisting the urge to rush the man out the door.

As Speck slung the bulging dispatch case on his shoulder, Johnny spoke up. "Looks like you got a mess a telegrams to deliver today."

"Sure do," Speck grumbled. "Mister Quinn, he says the lines been down fer two days an' a whole buncha tellygrams got backed up. Folks been yellin' at me like it's my fault they's gettin' their news late. Thanks fer not yellin' at me, Mister Johnny, Miz Tessa."

Maria Elena had been standing by with wide, frightened eyes, anxiously twisting her hands in her apron as she waited for the _hombre de telégrafo_ to leave and Teresa to explain what was going on. Teresa summoned her and Jelly to the table and read out the contents of the two telegrams. After a stunned silence Maria Elena was the first to speak.

"Juanito must go, hide... quick, quick before lawmans come..."

"Go where, woman? He ain't in no shape to ride!" Jelly objected.

"No... he isn't... and why should he run away? He hasn't done anything wrong... he said so!" Teresa fought to hold back tears. "The first thing we have to do is get word to Murdoch..."

"No... Maria Elena's right. I gotta leave... right now," Johnny said in a hard, flat voice. "Those lawmen might get here today an' I ain't aimin' to get myself locked up. Maria Elena... would you fix me up with food for a coupla days?"

"Johnny... no! Running is the worst thing you could do right now," Teresa implored.

"Ain't runnin'. Ridin'. Jelly, saddle up Barranca for me, would ya, while I get my things?"

"Uh... Barranca ain't here, Johnny... your pa's got 'im? Remember? And maybe ya orter listen to Teresa."

"Oh yeah... right. Then I'll take the best of whatever we got."

**As soon as Johnny** left the kitchen Maria Elena pounced on Jelly. "You go... _muy rápidamente_... find the _patrón_. Tell him come home now!"

For once Jelly was in agreement with her. Folding the two copied messages and tucking them away in a vest pocket, he spun on his bootheels to gather up his travel gear from his room.

Ten minutes later Johnny came downstairs fully dressed, with the saddlebags he'd always kept prepacked in the back of his closet draped over one arm and his gunbelt on the opposite shoulder. He was wearing the same outfit in which he'd arrived months ago. His face as impassive as granite but there was a fine sheen of perspiration on it. He was hurting.

"What are you going to do?!" A note of hysteria crept into his surrogate sister's voice as it rose an octave.

He gave her a sad half-smile. "Same thing I've always done, _querida_... get on with livin' best way I know how. You tell Scott an' the ole man goodbye for me, hear? I promise I'll send word once I get to a safe place, probably on the other side of the border."

"You can't go... you can't! You're not well!" Teresa asserted, knowing her pleas were useless.

"Have to." Johnny came over to give the bereft girl a hug and a kiss on the cheek before going to Maria Elena to do the same. _"¿Madrecita, no llores, eh? Recuerda que te amo."_ He went out the kitchen door while the two women clung together in distress, Maria Elena weeping copiously.

**Walking toward the barn** Johnny pondered Teresa's question and his answer: _Where indeed was he going to go?_ He wasn't being evasive... he just didn't know. Aside from a few instances in the past nine months when he'd supposedly 'gone away for good'—either in a fit of anger or as a strategic sortie—he'd not had any occasion to consider destinations were he to _have_ to leave the ranch. Just because he didn't _know_ of any paper out on him didn't mean there wasn't any. He had only a vague notion of extradition agreements among states and territories but he was positive a federal marshal had jurisdiction everywhere, so crossing the border into Nevada wouldn't accomplish much. Mexico was out. That left north... or west, and he'd still be in California. He wished to hell he knew what exactly he was wanted for this time... although, did that really matter?

Entering the barn's breezeway, Johnny was brought up short in disbelief of what was tied up there. Jelly was tightening the cinch on an ancient cracked and weathered saddle that'd been patched many times over and hadn't been cleaned or oiled in many a year. It wasn't the saddle itself that absorbed Johnny's attention... but what was under it.

Murdoch Lancer had a custardy-soft spot for the horses that'd served him loyally and well throughout the years. When one became too old to work but was otherwise in decent health, it was loosed in a pasture reserved for retirees. There it was allowed to live out its days dozing in the sun until nature took its course... or the animal became ill or incapacitated and had to be put down humanely.

Two such antedeluvian specimens stood hipshot and sleepy-eyed, their pendulous lower lips dribbling slobber at the almost-forgotten feel of bits in their mouths and weights on their backs.

"You've _got_ to be kiddin'!"

"Wisht I was, boy... but this's all we got."

"What about Taco... I know he's yours but..."

"Taco got a hoof crack big 'nuff to drive a stagecoach through. He ain't goin' nowhere."

"Leda? Teresa'd let me borrow her..."

"Chucho got her up at camp, remember?"

Johnny frowned. "That was Sunday... he shoulda been back by now..."

"Yep. Shoulda... but he sent word back with the supply wagon he was needed up there, sumpin' about bein' short a wranglers. Maria Elena liked to've bust a gusset an' Teresa ain't happy 'bout him missin' school but..."

"This ain't exactly what I had in mind for a getaway horse, Jelly. How far d'you expect me get on one of these old nags?"

"Take it or leave it. Choose which one ya want, I'll take t'other. This here one's Bullet and t'other's Flash. They was good horses in their day."

"Yeah... and that day was long before I was a twinkle in the Old Man's eye..." Johnny sighed. "Reckon I'll take the grey."

He needed help mounting up. Jelly just shook his head. Assuming Johnny would be heading south to the Mexican border, he said, "He'll get ya get as far as Morro Coyo if ya walk 'im slow... shouldn't take more'n four, five hours. When ya get there, go find One-Eye Johnson... tell 'im I sent ya. He'll trade ya a decent horse and take care a Ole Bullet 'til I can get down there and fetch 'im home."

Bebo arrived from the house with two cotton sacks filled with food for the road. Jelly mounted up and he and Johnny went out the drive together. Arriving at the junction of the private road and the main road, Jelly turned north toward the camps and Johnny south toward Morro Coyo after making their goodbyes. Jelly blinked back tears. "Godspeed, Johnny Madrid."

"Aw, Jelly... I'll be back... sooner than you think. You take care of my girls in the meantime." Bullet and Flash shambled away in opposite directions.

As it turned out, 'sooner' was even sooner than Johnny thought.


	41. Chapter 41

_Chapter 41: _**LIAR, LIAR... PANTALOONS ON FIRE!**

**Lancer Hacienda, late afternoon...** After Jelly and Johnny had gone, Teresa'd pulled herself together and she and Maria Elena'd got busy, first spreading the word that if any lawmen rode in looking for Mister Johnny or any of the Lancer menfolk, they were all upcountry chasing cows. Of course, if anyone came in they _didn't_ know... or not wearing a badge... they were to admit nothing. No use letting the whole world know this was a village of women and children, protected only by boys under fourteen and men too old to fork anything but a burro.

The main compound was unnaturally quiet when the two men rode in, although it wasn't anywhere near dinner time. Under shade trees a few old men played checkers or _lotería_. After giving the riders furtive glances, a handful of women hurried by with baskets in hand. Children were in evidence but none of them ran out to investigate—that in itself sent up a warning flag to Sheriff Crawford. If his companion noticed anything amiss he was keeping a poker face.

When no one came out to take charge of their horses, Val Crawford started to worry. Tethering the animals to the hitching rail outside the front entrance portico, he preceded the marshal to the massive carved double doors and employed the brass knocker... something he never did when visiting on his own. Most everyone came and went by the kitchen entrance.

Val removed his hat and stood stiffly erect, hoping thereby to convey to whoever opened up he was there on a serious matter.

One of the huge doors swung open silently on well-oiled hinges to reveal Teresa O'Brian... but not the cheerful, usually disheveled young woman he was used to finding. This Teresa was somewhat severely attired in a black woolen skirt and white shirtwaist fastened at the neck with a cameo brooch. She'd pulled her hair straight back and secured it at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon. She looked like a librarian.

"Ter... uh... Miss O'Brian... sorry to trouble you, but we're here to see Mister Lancer on... uh... official business. This here's Marshal Sammons." The other man had removed his hat also. "Miss Teresa O'Brian is Mister Lancer's ward... she's in charge a the household."

Teresa inclined her head slightly and backed away. "Please do come in, gentlemen. Regretfully, Mister Lancer is away and not expected back for several days."

"He ain't back from Los Angeles yet?" Val asked as he and the marshal carefully scrubbed their boots on the mat before coming inside.

"He came home but left again the next mornng. Would you care for coffee? Tea? Perhaps something stronger?"

Val was struck dumb by the girl's distant demeanor but Sammons said with a courtly bow, "Thank you, m'am. Coffee would be welcome."

Teresa angled her head toward the black-clad, white-aproned maid standing at her elbow, tranquilly regarding the sheriff with her coffee brown eyes. Maria Elena displayed not a spark of recognition for the man who'd many, many times made her laugh with his extravagant praise for her fine cooking.

_"__Maria Elena... café, por favor, con crema y azúcar."_

_"__Sí, Señorita... enseguida." _Maria Elena melted away and Teresa showed the visitors to the greatroom, indicating they should take the sofa while she took a straightback chair.

**"****How may I help you?"** Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

Marshal Sammons was disinclined to discuss his business with a female. "I understand there are sons? Perhaps one of them...?"

"I'm sorry... they're not home, either," Teresa apologized. "It's spring roundup, you know... our busiest season... all our menfolk are out at the camps collecting cattle."

That was the first lie—Val had been here only the day before yesterday, visiting the invalid after hearing about his accident from Doc Sam. No way was Johnny working cattle, here or anywhere else.

"Camps? There's more than one?" This marshal person didn't especially look like a tenderfoot but maybe he was a townie and didn't know ranch work. He didn't look too pleased, either.

"Yes... five of them, spread out at five- to ten-mile intervals. We run cattle over one hundred fifty square miles of ranch plus open range. They just started rounding them up last week. It might be another two or three weeks before any Lancers return to the house."

"Which camp we most likely could find 'em?" Val asked.

"I haven't the faintest idea, Sheriff. They do go back and forth between camps, overseeing operations and so forth." Lie number two. If the _patrón_ was anywhere on the ranch, you could be sure his movements were monitored and his exact location pinpointed. And you could bet your bottom dollar that every boss of each cow camp the _patrón_ hadn't yet graced with his presence knew which one he was visiting and when he could be expected to arrive. _And... _as a supply wagon came and went almost every day from one camp or another, the folks back at the Big House pretty much knew where he was and/or where he was headed at any given time. Val knew this and knew that Teresa knew he did.

The maid arrived with the coffee service and the next few minutes were consumed with the usual rituals of pouring, stirring, sipping, polite inquiries and responses regarding the ranch, the hacienda, the family... the sons in particular, and Teresa's place here. Gene Sammons was well-spoken and not at all pushy, but consummately experienced in winkling out informational tidbits from interviewees without their even realizing he was doing so.

The main question on Val's mind was, _where_ was Johnny... and _what_ or _who_ had alerted him to leave? He couldn't have traveled too far in less than two days... not in his condition and not on his own. Which brought up another question... where was Jellifer Hoskins—the nosiest man in the valley, possibly in the state? Something as momentous... or ominous... as a federal marshal on the premises would normally have brought him running with his birddog nose a-twitchin'.

"Say... Ter... Miss O'Brian... is ole Jelly around? I wanna ask him 'bout them Walker pups. I'm of a mind to get me one if Miz Livingston allows..."

Teresa put her coffee cup down and shot Val a look that would've curdled milk. "Mister Hoskins isn't here, Sheriff. He's delivering supplies to... oh... Hawk camp, I believe."

A whopping triple combo-lie this time... firstly, Jelly was Jelly to everyone, never Mister Hoskins. Secondly, Jelly was _foreman_, overseer of the hacienda and domestic needs in the absence of the Lancer menfolk, as distinct from the _segundo_ Cipriano, who was second in command of ranch operations excluding the house, with or without the junior Lancers. He would never, ever—for reasons of safety and security—leave Murdoch's ward unguarded and unattended by a responsible adult male. Thirdly, no camp resupply wagon ever left without Teresa's knowledge of its contents and destination—along with Jelly, she was the recordkeeper, the virtual quartermaster of stores.

Val tried to warn Teresa not to carry this charade too far... or let her impetuous nature get the better of her. Either she wasn't getting the message or was simply tiring of keeping up the pretense. She was caught offguard when the marshal loosed his next arrow.

**"****Miss O'Brian, were you forewarned **of my visit today? I get the impression you are already acquainted with the nature of my business though I'm quite sure I haven't yet brought it forward. Usually the first question I get is why am I here? Yet, you haven't once made that inquiry."

"I... no... of course not. I mean... how could we have known?" She couldn't very well explain about the telegrams.

"Are you quite sure about that?" His eyes slowly swiveled around to fix on the sheriff.

"I swear on my momma's grave, Marshal... " Val squawked. "It warn't me. I never sent no message. You can ask Bubba Fortson over to the Western Union in Green River. I ain't been in his office in weeks... and I didn't send Tommy neither!"

"Very well... I'll accept that... but _somebody_ did. Is that not so, Miss O'Brian?" As much as Sammons regretted to badger the girl, he had to let a little harshness creep in.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Teresa said primly, "but as you've brought up the subject, let's not dance around it. Why _are_ you here?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the details, Miss O'Brian, but I very much need to speak with the Lancers on a matter of some urgency."

"Whatever it is you believe Johnny's done, I'm sure he didn't do it."

"Why do _you_ think I'm here?"

"Are you here to make an arrest? On what grounds? Let me see your warrant!" Teresa held out her hand in determined expectation.

_Dang, that girl's got sand, _Val was thinking with admiration.

"What makes you think I've go one?"

"If you're here to arrest Johnny, it stands to reason you must have a warrant." _Good recovery!_

"You're quite right. I do have a warrant. And let me assure you, young lady, I am in possession of other details that will aid in confirmation of identity. I have no intention of apprehending someone in error."

"I'm certainly gratified to hear _that!_" Teresa retorted, a bit frostily.

"Which is why I require a face-to-face interview. Is that so unreasonable?"

"No. No it's not," Teresa mumbled. "However... as I said, Johnny isn't here."

Marshall Sammons smiled beatifically and his eyes twinkled behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, giving Teresa had the nagging impression she'd just inadvertently given something away.

**Marshall Sammons stood up,** addressing Val brusquely. "We'd best be on our way. Do you know where these camps are located?"

"Not 'zackly..."

"Then we'll need a guide." He turned to Teresa. "I'm sorry to impose on you, but we'll be requiring a guide and fresh horses..."

Teresa held up her hands. "I can't help you with mounts... we simply don't have anything left except wagon horses and some mules."

"I don't have anything against mules, miss."

Val rolled his eyes... he hated mules worse than sin. Too many years of his boyhood had been spent at the nether end of a mule and a plow in a cotton field. But if a federal marshal wasn't above riding one, then he'd have to as well.

"What about a guide?"

"I'll see what I can do... I might be able to persuade one of our retirees to take you..."

"Can you provide us with a map of these camps relative to this house?"

"I suppose so." On a sheet of paper from Murdoch's desk drawer, Teresa scribed a primitive drawing of the camps, adding their names and proximate distances from the house. With that in his possession, the marshal would know if he were being led by the nose in circles by a guide secretly instructed to take the longest possible route.

Sammons let out a grunt of exasperation when he saw they'd be backtracking almost the half the distance they'd come just to reach the first camp. "Would you care to suggest which one we should visit first?"

"Unless Mister Lancer changed his mind about the route, he and his guests were going to start at Hawk and work their way west... they left here Monday afternoon."

"Guests? Does Mister Lancer customarily travel with a retinue during spring roundup?"

Teresa balled her hands into tight little fists at her waist. Two high spots of color blazed in her cheeks. _Uh oh! _Val thought. Any second now all hell was gonna break loose. One thing Teresa would _not_ tolerate was any disrespect toward her surrogate father! And when Miss Teresa O'Brian pitched a tantrum, you'd be well advised to stand far clear of the blast zone.

"With all due respect, Marshal Sammons... Mister Lancer's traveling companions are none of your concern. He happens to be hosting a very important journalist from Los Angeles and I'm sure he won't be pleased if you and Sheriff Crawford show up and cause a disturbance."

"Los Angeles, huh? I'm from down that way myself and I know most of the important folks thereabouts. Perhaps I know these guests."

"I doubt you travel in the same circles as Doctor LaPierre," Teresa shot back with a head toss.

The marshal merely smiled without replying, ignoring the girl's rudeness. _My my my. What a perfectly sublime coincidence!_ What, he wondered, did a distinguished writer—author of many erudite articles in professional journals dedicated to criminal justice and law enforcement—find of interest in a cow camp? He'd have to ask Paul that when he next saw him.

"We'll be going now, Miss O'Brian. Come along, Sheriff. I reckon we can get a few more miles out of the horses and then we'll make camp.

"Oh... and by the way, Miss O'Brian... I never did specifically mention Johnny's name... interesting that you've naturally assumed he's the one I'm after."

Teresa knew she'd been had.

**Teresa's upbringing had included** a solid respect for her elders not to mention the customs of hospitality. In spite of her wrath, she was suddenly overcome by shame... and a flash of inspiration—the longer she could delay these two, the greater would be the chance of Johnny putting some distance between then!

"Marshal Sammons, I do apologize for that most unseemly display of temper... and I simply can't allow you to do that... camp out overnight, that is. You've both come a long way... you're tired and your horses need rest. I must insist you stay for dinner and stay the night..."

"Well, Miss O'Brian, that's an awfully big imposition and would be entirely improper... us overnighting here when none of your menfolks are..."

"No, no... I insist. We have plenty of room... and our family is quite well acquainted with Sheriff Crawford. Maria Elena! Bebo!"

Maria Elena glided through the door almost instantaneously—she'd been lurking on the other side with her ears peeled. The youngster appeared a moment later.

"Maria Elena... the marshal and the sheriff will be our guests at dinner and will be spending the night. Gentlemen, if you'll kindly bring in your saddlebags, Bebo will see to your horses."

A few minutes later they were following the young châtelaine up the staircase, where she showed them to their rooms and pointed out the bathroom where they could freshen up. "There's water in the cistern and I'll have one of the maids bring up some hot water momentarily."

Marshal Sammons put up another token protest although greatly relieved at the prospect of not having to immediately climb back on a horse, of what undoubtedly would be a splendid meal, and of sleeping in a real bed instead of on the ground.

"Perhaps, Marshal, you'd enjoy a nap before dinner?" The marshal would indeed enjoy that—very much—and admitted his old bones were complaining.

Sending Val back to the kitchen to keep Maria Elena company, Teresa changed back to her usual attire. Playing dress-up wasn't her thing. Never had been.

Sheriff Crawford pondered a slew of his own questions throughout the very fine meal of lamb stew with tiny new red potatoes and baby carrots and yeast rolls. Where was Johnny hiding and what condition was he in? What was Jelly up to? How was he, Val, going to justify to the marshal once they reached the camps that he already knew Johnny wasn't there? Had Johnny actually done what he was accused of doing? Was Johnny in fact leading a double life with a wife and child in San Clemente? How did Teresa know in advance he'd be showing up today with a federal marshal? And... was there even a remote possibility she might consider marrying up with someone like him? Life sure was a whole lot simpler back when he was still a gunfighter. Being a lawman was awful complicated and a lot of work.


	42. Chapter 42

**• • • • • ****FRIDAY, MAY 6 • • • • •**

_Chapter 42: _**A WATCHED PLOT COMES TO A BOIL**

**John Lancer** (aka Madrid) was going nowhere. Yesterday he'd waited until Jelly was well out of sight, then turned his mount directly east instead of heading south to Morro Coyo as he'd led everyone to believe was his intention. For once his horseman's acumen had failed him when Jelly'd offered him the choice of mounts. Bullet was a good decade older than Flash's comparatively youthful twenty-two years. It had been a long time since Bullet had carried a rider cross country and he was none too eager about it. He didn't have the energy to buck in protest, but did manage to balk and shy at every shadow or quivering leaf. Johnny had to dismount and drag the unwilling animal across Cantua Creek.

Johnny's long-range goal was Canada. His short-term plan was to ride north up the Yokut Trace, where there was unlikely to be any traffic, and make Spanish Wells around dusk. He had some acquaintances there—shady characters who owed him money or favors—that he could hit up for supplies and a good horse.

But fate and Mother Nature had other plans for the born-again desperado.

After the first few miles Bullet's already less than vigorous step begun to flag, gradually slowing down until he came to a complete halt, blowing like a locomotive. When Johnny accepted no amount of drumming against ribs was going to get the ancient equine going again, he once more eased himself down. Thus unburdened, Bullet agreed to be led away toward an arroyo Johnny knew of not too far off the Trace.

The hiding place was perfect... steep shadow-casting sides embracing a cottonwood grove. Atypically, this fissure in the earth contained a tiny deep spring feeding a clear brooklet that never dried up in the summer and supported a verdant grassy floor. Johnny removed Bullet's bridle and hobbled him although it was hardly likely he'd wander off. The old horse fell to grazing greedily, while Johnny offloaded his gear and saddle. Decrepit and dried out, it was still a heavy stock saddle that took a toll on an already compromised back. Johnny had to grit his teeth against the pain and drag the saddle over to where he intended to camp. He tried not to think about how he was going to hoist it... or himself... back up again.

The night was chilly but not cold and there was no reason to build a fire. Disgusted with both his own and his horse's infirmities and with nothing better to do, Johnny had a cold supper of biscuits and ham, rolled up in his blanket and went back to sleep with the aid of a drop or two of laudanum in a tin cup of creek water.

**Jordan Lancer** (aka Montero) hadn't had a chance to get down to the pool to bathe and judged he was getting pretty ripe. Didn't matter—everyone else smelled just as bad. One got used to it. He hadn't found time to go by the chuckwagon for an application of Cochie's healing unguent and fresh bandages to replace the filthy rags that he'd finally discarded. Somewhere he'd lost the protective leather cuff. His hip ached constantly. The thick encrustation covering the slash on his forearm itched and pinched when intact, hurt like hell whenever he accidentally ripped all or part of it off while working. He must've picked at it during the night—half the scab was missing and the exposed wound was dribbling pink-tinged serous fluid.

The calves kept on coming. Everyone was tired... dusty, dirty, stinking, saddlesore. Broken fingers and mashed toes were wrapped and disregarded. The horses weren't much better off, well-rested at first—obstreperous now... not as easy to catch, harder to saddle and given to extended periods of crankiness before settling down and getting to work.

All but one of the men had given up shaving, including the boys who didn't really need to yet but fingered their faces every morning, comparing peach fuzz. Jody's own miserly crop had sprouted enough to start itching.

Facing the mirror for the first time in days he was startled by his own unrecognizable reflection. He didn't think Jerry had hit him hard enough to break his nose, although it'd hurt like Hades at the time. The already-existing wide flat bump on the bridge—from the _first_ time it'd been broken—was even wider and lumpier. The whiplash was going to leave yet another scar on his face—the puffiness on that side matched the swollen cheekbone on the other side where the Irishman had landed a punch, also producing a shiner. His hair now reached his shoulders and hung down in his eyes—which was handy for shaking the flies away from his face. He soon found his hand just wasn't steady enough to wield a straight razor with any degree of accuracy.

Reluctantly Jody was coming to a new appreciation for this older brother. The man was up every morning before daybreak, shaving before breakfast. He didn't seem to mind getting as filthy as the rest of them but by golly he was going to start the day off with a chin as smooth as a baby's bum. Jody'd had no opportunities to observe Scott in action but got eyewitness reports from Jimmy who had.

That Scott Lancer had brass nuts, according to the younger boy, who was aware Scott was still in an instructional phase. He made mistakes and took his licks, then jumped right back in and carried on with whatever he'd been doing. And the hands passed along approving comments. Señor Scott was earning kudos from everybody. The _patrón_ could be proud of his city-reared son. And as the _vaqueros_ viewed him as an extension of Murdoch Lancer, they could be proud of him as well. He was earning their respect and then some. But he was still being tested, an initiation rite as such.

**Scott Lancer** had been promoted to flanking and was under the impression this would be less strenuous. And it was... at first. Then the circle riders brought in a batch of mavericks they'd been collecting and holding separately. These wickedly horned animals averaged nine months of age and eight to nine hundred pounds apiece... compared to bald-domed three-month-old two-hundred-pound calves. They did not take kindly to branding, ear notching and emasculation. It took four men to hold one down. When presented with a sharp knife and an unhappy upended adolescent bull, Scott'd gone a bit green around the gills but eventually got the technique down pat... after cutting himself twice and missing the bucket a couple of times.

Floured and peppered pan-fried prairie oysters had been on the menu for several days running and becoming less of a treat. Scott had accepted a plateful at breakfast and eaten them, reminding himself over and over that these were supposed to be _delicacies_... like _escargot_, which he happened to like. They weren't sitting too well.

Scott managed to get himself hooked in the upper arm once, not too badly, and kicked in the groin. He writhed on the ground, red-faced and breathless... and promptly hoicked up the undigested _criadillas_... but when sufficiently recovered went right back to work.

**Jellifer Hoskins** was galloping at an inadvisably reckless pace on a borrowed cowpony—in the wrong direction. It had taken Flash all day and half the night to plod his way to Osprey. Jellifer had shaken awake the camp boss only to be informed that Murdoch _et al_ had moved on. He'd been too exhausted to continue (after all, he _was_ getting on in years) and had lain down for a kip, only to oversleep this morning. Somehow, while packing up to hit the trail amidst the usual frenzy of morning activity in the cow camp, Murdoch had neglected to inform the camp boss of the change of itinerary, so as far as that gentleman was aware, the _patrón_ and his party were on their way to Eagle camp.

**Teresa O'Brian** and Maria Elena Melendez had seen off their overnight guests after having served a hearty late breakfast to Marshal Eugene Sammons and Sheriff Valentine Crawford, who'd both managed to oversleep. At the marshal's request, Teresa reviewed her hand-drawn map, once again pointing out the locations of the camps though politely declining to speculate at which one he might be likely to find Johnny Lancer. Sheriff Val kept trying to catch her eye, silently pleading for a hint, a crumb of cooperation. Her cold shoulder eloquently conveyed 'when hell freezes over.' Still, she and Maria Elena made an effort to be pleasant and even provided the lawmen with a sack of noshies to nibble on their way to whichever camp they elected to visit first. They decided on Falcon, as it was the nearest.

**In the hamlet of Morro Coyo...** In the Camas Lily Café, Stanley Laurence and Oliver Hardison loosened their belts and pushed back from the oilcloth-covered table on which reposed the remains of a substantial lunch. A signal for more coffee brought the smiling middle-aged waitress scurrying with the pot. Stan had one of those genial open faces that inspired a desire to cooperate in men and women alike. And Ollie exuded an air of shyness and vulnerability that beguiled older women into wanting to ply him with milk and cookies.

Belching in appreciation of a satisfying meal and reaching for the toothpicks, the two fugitive retrieval specialists resumed a discussion that had begun earlier that morning in their shared hotel room in Bakersfield.

It was Ollie's contention that after enduring two hundred fifty miles and three straight days of butt-numbing, tooth-jarring travel by stagecoach, his hinders could do with a day's rest and relaxation before undertaking the next phase of their mission. His wants were modest—a bathhouse, a barber, a saloon, a cathouse... not necessarily in that order. Why couldn't they just take tomorrow off?

Stan was attempting to explain, in the simplest possible terms because his companion wasn't the sharpest axe in the woodshed, why time was of the essence. That old coot who'd hired them was hanging onto life by a whisker, and if they wanted the other half of that bounty money they'd better press on—snatch the kid and hie on back to Chula Vista before the old buzzard kicked the bucket. On the other hand, he wouldn't be averse to a day of rest, either.

They knew their quarry's face, thanks to an old, not very clear photograph the old geezer had shown them—the same one used in all those wanted posters he'd had printed up and plastered all over Chula Vista. Other than that and a sketchy outline of his relationship to the Lancer family, the hunters didn't have a whole lot to go on. And, unfortunately, there were a number of gaping omissions in their knowledge of the Lancer connection—most notably, that one of them happened to be a notorious gunslinger.

Upon their friendly server's inquiry as to whether they were traveling for business or pleasure, Stan offered up their cobbled-together cover story without naming names—they were 'old friends' of the younger Mister Lancer, just stopping by to say 'howdy' on their way up from Mexico. Did she know him and would she happen to know where he might be found?

Evelyn Turner didn't turn a hair as she poured, responding that of course she knew him—everybody did, no need to name names. Giving precise directions to the Lancer _hacienda_, she turned away, snickering to herself. She knew bounty hunters when she smelled them, and harbored no illusions as to what would happen if they challenged Johnny Madrid on his own turf! She reckoned the next time she laid eyes on these feckless yahoos they'd be tarp-covered bundles in the back of a buckboard. That would teach them to mess about with the darling of every sentient female in Morro Coyo!


	43. Chapter 43

**• • • • • ****SATURDAY, MAY 7 • • • • •**

_Chapter 43: _**CONVOCATION ON A GRASSY KNOLL**

**Condor Camp, mid-morning... **At one point Scott hadn't got out of the way fast enough when the other flankers let go and was knocked backwards against the man holding the running iron, laying a five-inch stripe of unbelievable pain across the only part of his leg unprotected by chaps—the back of his right thigh right below the buttock.

Grim-faced and in considerable discomfort, Scott resumed his post only to be advised that Cheech wanted him back on heeling duty in the afternoon. Having been off on some errand, Cheech was unaware of both the indignity to the Lancer family jewels and the branding iron incident. Nor had he been advised by the witnesses, who were curious to see if Señor Scott would bear up as an _hombre macho_ should... or flake out on them.

Groaning inwardly, Scott asked that Buck be brought up. Buck wasn't available—stone bruise. Neither was Cookie—he'd cast a shoe. Which left Charlemagne. Scott told the tall curly-haired wrangler to go ahead and bring him up, but not to hurry because he, Scott, had an urgent personal problem to attend to first. Ronnie was wise enough to not ask. He had a pretty good idea, though, watching the way the blonde Lancer limped back down the hill with a visible scorch mark on the back of his trousers.

Scott's objective was the chuck wagon and medical intervention for his blistered thigh before it was forced to make contact with saddle leather. Cochie was loathe to step away from some fearsome concoction bubbling in a big Dutch oven (not _guiso de testículo_, Scott fervently hoped), so the _cocinero/médico_ indicated to Scott to drop his pants and longhandles right then and there for inspection.

Scott had quickly learned that privacy and modesty were of no concern in a cow camp. Cheech happened to stroll up. He and Cochie then both bent over behind Scott's bare hinders to assess the severity of the blisters and confer on appropriate treatment, with assistance and commentary from the two cook's assistants and a passing _vaquero_. Scott ground his teeth.

The concensus was that Señor Scott should be excused from all saddle duties for the rest of the day. Cochie further recommended that he go immerse his buttocks in the icy water of the creek until the fire subsided. Later on, Cochie would lance the blisters and apply his special secret-recipe aloe-based salve to the burn.

**Of course, it had to be ****_right then_** that Murdoch Lancer and his entourage rode in. Scott managed to yank his pants back up in time and was furiously buttoning up when his father dismounted in front of him.

Murdoch looked his son up and down with a fathomless expression as if not quite sure what to make of this sunburned, sweaty and filth-stained apparition with blonde hair straggling in greasy lanks from under his hat. 'Boston' looked about as miserable as his father'd ever seen him, with a bloody bandanna wrapped around one upper arm and another encasing his left hand. And why had he been mooning the head cook?

With an odd, slightly spraddle-legged gait, Scott waddled forward to greet his father. Murdoch fought to stifle a belly laugh. He was concerned for his son's injuries, naturally... but secretly proud of the evidence Scott was game to tackle the hardest sort of work. He cleared his throat noisily.

"Son," Murdoch acknowledged.

"Sir," his elder... correction, eldest, son replied.

"How's it going?"

"Can't remember when I've had so much fun. Can't wait to do it all again tomorrow."

"Scott... I'd like you meet some friends of mine... Brother Paul LaPierre and his assistant Sister Mary Catriona.

"Pleased to meet you." Hands were shaken all around.

"This is my... older... son Scott... at at least I _think_ it's Scott under all those layers of grime. We seem to have interrupted some... uh... medical emergency?"

"Not at all, sir. Just a minor inconvenience."

"Brother Paul, who also holds a doctorate, is a journalist for the Royal Geographical Society. He's here to interview cowboys for an article he's working on. We've just come from Falcon and before that, Osprey. We'll be staying here a few days."

"Fascinating. I hope we have an opportunity later to chat, Doctor... er... Brother... however, at the moment..."

"Please... call me Paul. And I can see you're quite busy. Don't mind us. I believe we're going to rest for a few moments and then ride out to see the main body of cattle... isn't that right, Murdoch?"

"Yes... would you like to join us, Scott? I'm sure Cheech can spare you..."

Scott paled and stammered. "Thank you, sir, but no... I have something I need to do right away." What he needed to do right away was very slowly and carefully make his way along the creek until he reached the pool Cochie told him about, then sit in it.

"All right. We'll be back in plenty of time for dinner... wouldn't want to miss Elfredo's beef bourguignon which I can smell simmering... it's his specialty, you know... he makes it only for special occasions such as _Cinco de Mayo_... which was yesterday, of course. I'm sure it wasn't just in honor of our visitation because... he wouldn't have known we were coming, would he?" Murdoch smiled beneficently at the rotund cook, who was trying to look innocent.

"Cochie, if it's not too much trouble, could we get some coffee and a bite to eat? Just enough to hold us for a few hours?"

_"__Sí, patrón!"_

"Scott... I believe Barranca's picked up a stone... his stride's a little off. Would you mind if I borrowed Charlie for a few hours, if he's not needed?"

It had completely slipped Scott's mind that he'd already asked for Charlie to be brought up. "Of course not... in fact, he should be already saddled and ready to go up at the picket line."

Murdoch turned to the _vaquero_ who had automatically stepped up to take charge of the _patrón's_ and his guests' mounts, explaining that the palomino needed attention and he'd like the other two swapped out for two of the spares very shortly. The man nodded and led the three animals away.

**Cochie immediately detailed** a minion to keep stirring his creation—lovingly prepared with olive oil, bacon, pepper, carrots, wild onions, garlic, sun-dried tomatoes and dried mushrooms—with a stern warning that he'd better not let it scorch or else! It wasn't beef and it wasn't burgundy, but venison and Cochie's very own _vino tinto,_ homemade from the vineyard behind his house on the steep slopes where cattle couldn't graze. When not cooking for roundup crews, Elberto Cruz was supervisor of Lancer's vineyards and olive groves, with an ongoing vendetta against marauding goats.

Behind ingratiating smiles for the _patrón_ and his party, the _cocinero_ was seething with worries and praying that a couple of problems he was sitting on wouldn't have to be disclosed until resolved...

Foremost, the head wrangler... looking distinctly unwell and limping even more heavily than ever. Cochie had tried unsuccessfully to get _Sombra_ Joey to let him look at that injured arm and apply new bandages—_Madre Dios, _let it not be infected with fever setting in!

Those two _irlandés pendejos_... outwardly suitably chastised and performing their duties, but at the same time slinking around the camp in their off-hours, fomenting fear and disrespect among the duller-witted members of the troupe. Cochie knew in his old bones _that_ pair was up to no good!

Then there was Maria Elena's grandson... Of course the _cocinero_ had known in advance the _patrón_ and his party were coming... had known since noon yesterday when Chucho had shown up on Miss Teresa's little black mare Leda. The thirteen-year-old was so overexcited at being in the camps with the grown-ups he'd hardly slept. Cochie had bedded him down in the wagon and turned the mare over to Jimmy with instructions no one was to ride her. This morning Cochie'd sent Chucho out to help _Sombra_ Joey and Ronnie, hoping no one would remark on the the new and _very_ young face. He did warn the boy, though, that he _would_ be sent home with the next supply wagon.

Murdoch and his guests were installed at a table with sourdough rolls and cheese and coffee. Paul was admiring the pavilion and the general set-up. "This is somewhat of a departure from the usual, isn't it?"

"My _compadres_ at the stockmen's association do find it ridiculously extravagant," the rancher admitted, "but I consider it a worthwhile contribution to the morale of my workers. It's my land and we do this twice every year. There's no need for the men to endure any more hardship than necessary. Just having a place to sleep out of the rain makes a big difference... and having permanent structures like pens cuts down on make-ready time. As for permanent latrines... well..." Murdoch chuckled, "you don't have to be _quite_ as careful where you step, if you know what I mean..."

**Arriving from Spanish Wells** to the north, a white-bearded buckskin-clad rider rode his grey mule right up to the table before sliding off and interrupting the conversation.

"Howdy folks... Murdoch... ain't seed ya in a coon's age. Jes passin' through. Reckoned ah'd drap by an' set a spell... whatcher got good t'eat? Mah belly thinks muh throat's been cut."

Murdoch stood up and grinned, first introducing his guests. "This old reprobate is Gabriel Pierre McClanahan... one of the last of the mountain men by way of Kentucky. Grab yourself a pew, Gabe, and we'll get you fixed up!"

Gabe expectorated an enormous wad of baccy. "Thankee kindly, Murdo. Lemme visit that there indoor outhouse a yourn an' ah'll be raht back."

As the man stalked away, Cat expelled a long-held breath and remarked she hadn't enjoyed such an interesting fragrance since a skunk had got into the outhouse back home. Paul and Murdoch both choked and coughed.

"I know... he's one of those oldtimers who holds a once a year bath is enough... but he's got a heart of gold." Murdoch continued to elaborate on his friend's finer points until interrupted by another arrival...

**Boiling into camp **from the west, Jelly reined his horse to a screeching halt in a billowing cloud of dust and tumbled off practically at his boss' feet. Murdoch had jumped up as soon as he realized who the rider was—his heart was in his throat... something terrible must have happened back at the ranch to cause his overseer to abandon his post and leave the women unguarded!

Jelly scrambled up and stood hunched over with his hands on his knees, huffing and puffing and purple-faced. "Boss... boss..." He was so winded he could hardly speak. One would think he'd galloped all the way from Falcon on his own two legs instead of horseback.

"Steady, there... take it easy... breathe, Jelly, breathe... that's better... calm down before you give yourself apoplexy..."

"Boss... you... gotta... go... home... right... away!" Jelly choked out. "Hhhheerrrreee... read... 'em... Johnny... he... Johnny..." He fumbled the copies of the telegrams out of his vest and thrust them in Murdoch's face.

"What's this?" Murdoch narrowed his brows and squinted to read the missives. "I don't understand... what's this about Johnny?"

"Gggggoonnne boss... gone... took off... tried ta stop 'im... hurt... can't ride far."

Murdoch reread the telegrams. "But why? This isn't about him..." Suddenly he understood... Jelly didn't know about Jordan Lancer/Jordán Montero... no one at the ranch knew—they'd assumed 'JMLancer' was Johnny.

"Shit! Where did he go, Jelly... tell me quickly..."

"South... Mexico..."

That couldn't be right... Johnny knew it was too dangerous for him there. Murdoch turned around and handed the papers over to Paul. "I've got to return to the ranch right now..."

Paul scanned the messages before passing them to Cat. "I understand. Go ahead. We'll be fine on our own... I'm certain your people will look after us and we'll continue our... um... research."

"Jelly... sit right here 'til you catch your breath and calm down. I'll get us some horses." Murdoch quickly walked away.

"Looks like Murdoch's made a tactical error... not letting the family in on the secret right away..." Paul said, forgetting Jelly was within earshot.

"Ya think?" Cat said.

"Secret? What secret you talkin' 'bout?" Jelly demanded, snatching back the copies.

"This 'JMLancer' they're looking for? It's not Johnny. He's run away for no reason. He's not in trouble... not that we know of."

"Yeah, well who _is_ this yahoo then. Dern troublemaker... I'd like ta belt 'im a good 'un!"

"Best let Murdoch explain that," Paul said piously.

**When the ****_patrón_**** stormed up** with a face like thunder, the two _vaqueros_ waiting for their remounts came to attention, whipping off their sombreros.

"You there!" Murdoch yelled at the halfbreed wrangler with two horses in tow. He didn't know the face but well recognized the animal he was riding—the attractive but unloved Ace, being managed quite easily with just a hackamore. A small corner of Murdoch's mind registered that astounding achievement, and hard on that came the the notion that the young man looked familiar. But he lost both thoughts in the press of more important matters.

The _vaqueros_ hastened to saddle up and get gone—who wanted to be around the _patrón_ when he was in such a mood, eh?

"You speak English?" Murdoch barked.

_"__Sí señor."_ The kid regarded him coolly.

Murdoch pointed at Charlemagne, saddled and tied at the picket rail. "I'm taking that one... my son's... and I need two more, quickly... I'm in a hurry! Make sure they're ranch horses, not private mounts."

"_Sí señor..._" The wrangler gave Murdoch a searching look before swinging around and cantering down the hill to the remuda.

**Murdoch stood on the rise,** fidgeting at the delay... worrying about Johnny's _and_ Jordan's whereabouts and conditions, wondering where the lawmen were at the moment, worrying about Scott's injuries, wondering how he was going to explain this state of affairs to his family, worried about the state of mind of his women at the ranch... Teresa must be beside herself! _Why me, Lord? Why can't I just have a _normal_ family like everyone else?_

**Scott had found a clear sandy spot** in the pool where he could rest his aching back and shoulders against the grassy bank while his offended bottom portion was soothed by the cold, fast flowing water. Fifteen minutes later he decided the boys were numb enough. After drying off and dressing in the clean clothes he'd brought with him, he cautiously hobbled his way back along the creek path, trying to ignore the discomfort of cloth rubbing against the back of his thigh. Arriving at the footbridge and glancing up the knoll, he saw Charlie still tethered there and his father standing a few feet away. That was odd... Charlie was supposed to be carrying Murdoch out to the main herd. _Better go up there and see what's going on._

**Cat had to pee or explode. **As the fairly steady traffic to and from the latrines had dropped off considerably, now would be a good time to go... but she needed a door minder and Paul and Gabe were deep in conversation. Jelly, with whom she'd been engaging in small talk, noted Sister Mary Catriona squirming on her bench and his brain connected the dots. Shyly he inquired if she might require an escort and door-watcher while she took care of business. Yes, Sister Mary Catriona would be greatly obliged. They moved off toward the facility. As they approached the entrance two red-headed cowboys were just leaving. Startled at the unexpected presence of a nun, they stood aside and whipped off their chapeaus, bowing in reverential awe. Cat noted that one of them had an unusual haircut. _What kind of tonsorial clown do they employ as a barber around here, anyway?_

**Gabe said he was about** to take Myrtice over to the remuda to turn her in with the horses and would Brother Paul care to accompany them? Yes, Brother Paul would be delighted. After stripping his gear from the mule, the mountain man extracted from its boot an ancient but still serviceable and lovingly-cared-for Dickert long rifle, announcing he never went anywhere without 'Betsy'. Falling in behind Scott, a good thirty feet ahead of them, they strolled over the bridge and up the knoll, Paul continuing their chat from either side of Myrtice. _Wonder if he sleeps with that thing under his pillow._

**Cochie was hailing** the two newest arrivals, offering them coffee after directing one of his assistants to take charge of their horses. Homely, personable, gap-toothed Val Crawford was one of the cook's favorite people even if—at the moment—uncharacteristically unhappy and unsmiling. Yes, the _patrón_ is here... right up that path and on top of that hill, as a matter of fact. The older man with him took a gander at the upward climb and sighed deeply. _What has brought Señor Sheriff and his dour-faced companion, another—obviously _muy importante_—_oficial de la ley_, out here today?_

**Jody rode down the hill** and across the pasture in somewhat of a state of shock. The herd had drifted to the far side, as herds are wont to do, and stubbornly bunched up there. In an effort to streamline operations—because he was the better catcher and had memorized each animal's name—Jody had elected to remain with the herd. With each capture he brought the horse to the edge of the remuda and turned it over to either Ronnie or Chucho who then relayed it up the hill. When they came back down with the trade-ins, they also brought the names of the next horses to be caught. This worked fine as long as he had two shuttles. But Jerry, who was supposed to be riding perimeter, had disappeared some time back. Jody'd had to send Ronnie out to take Jerry's place and occasionally help Chucho bring the remounts all the way up the hill to where riders waited by the picket rails.

Spotting and closing in on the first horse he'd picked out for Murdoch, Jody considered the man he'd just encountered. His _biological_ father... a big man in every sense of the word... not just physically. He projected an aura of dominion that was almost tangible. Jody felt overwhelmed... confused... couldn't put a finger on exactly _what_ he was feeling... other than unprepared. The man flat out scared him. Scott and Johnny exuded that same sense of power, which Jody couldn't feel within himself. He couldn't _visualize_ himself as a Lancer. _Madre Dios!_

With a short catch rope settled on one chestnut head, Jody went after the second one... a nice stocky bay that was sneakily ducking and weaving to put other bodies between himself and the man with the rope. This one wasn't as easy to snare as, at the same time, Jody was having to manage not only the horse he was on but the one he was leading.

**The top of the knoll** was getting crowded. Out of the corner of his eye Jody counted eleven people. At this distance he could only guess at faces: Murdoch, Scott, an older bearded man wearing a furry cap, another man in a brown monk's robe, two men with distinctive flat Irish caps (O'Doul and Kelly—and what was _Jerry_ doing up there when he was supposed to be on duty?), two new men with clothing and hats that shouted 'not-cowboy' and three _vaqueros_ turning in their horses, which Chucho was riding up to get, along with a gray mule.

Jody was starting to get a bad feeling about this. Especially when the two newest arrivals moved in such a way that the sun reflected off the gleaming silver objects on their chests. He felt the familiar cold, hard knot of dread forming in his belly and fought it. _Nooooo! Not now! Too soon! Too soon!_

The herd was too tightly grouped around him to enable escape in any direction other than up the hill... and Ace was about played out for the day. The only fresh—and conveniently saddled—horse fast enough to make a getaway was on top of that hill... Scott's Charlemagne, ground-tied _near_ the picket rail but not _tethered_ to it. Jody had an idea... if he could get in close enough before anyone recognized him. It _could_ work. After all, if his own father didn't have a clue... He pulled his hatbrim down low and forced himself to remain calm.

Chucho was hazing the three returned horses and the mule downhill as Jody was taking the two mounts for Murdoch back up. As they came abreast Chucho automatically reached for the leads, mouth open to relay the names of the next three horses to fetch, confused when Jody shook his head 'no', indicating he would continue up the hill.

Approaching the knoll, Jody took note of everyone's position... Murdoch, Scott, the brown-robed monk or priest, and the old grizzled fellow in buckskins stood facing each other not a dozen feet from where Charlemagne stood. The three _vaqueros_ held themselves some distance away with their saddles on the next picket rail. Thirty feet away on the other side of Murdoch's group and with their backs to Jody, O'Doul and Kelly were conversing with the two men wearing badges, gesticulating wildly.

Jody rode up close to Murdoch and slid down, avoiding eye contact with the other three men while casually looping Ace's reins around the rail.

"About time," the rancher growled. "Give 'em here... I'll take 'em."

Jody handed over the lead ends without comment. Murdoch paused, proffering his hand.

"Look, son... I'm sorry I yelled at you. Got an emergency at home. I'm Murdoch Lancer."

The youngster hesitated before returning the handshake. Murdoch fancied he saw a flicker of... something... fear?... in the oddly gold-green eyes.

Jody tensed. It was now or never. He moved as if to scoop up Charlie's reins and hand those over, too. Instead, he threw one over the horse's neck, held onto the other, and popped the second of the horses Murdoch was leading on the rump. The startled creature bumped into Ace, who promptly turned and nipped him. Murdoch was pulled off balance and knocked to the ground as both horses bolted, tearing their leads from Murdoch's hands. The other three men were leaping out of the way to avoid being trampled. In the melee, Jody ducked under Charlie's head and scrambled into the saddle... not very gracefully—his hip was killing him.

He'd no sooner got settled when Jerry O'Doul turned and spotted him.

"That's him! The very fellow yer after!" Jerry shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as he lunged forward.

Kenny turned his head, his mouth falling open. "Git 'im! _GIT 'IM!_"

The two lawmen's eyes swiveled in Jody's direction and their hands moved towards their guns.

In that frozen moment everything was driven from Jody's mind except the certain knowledge he was about to be shot/beaten/crushed to death... and the driving imperative to escape. He wasn't wearing spurs but Charlie acted as though he were, first rearing and then launching himself forward at a dead run.

Jody hunkered down as a bullet spanged by his ear, letting Charlie head in whatever direction suited him... as long as it was away from that bevy of buzzing men. Within seconds they were downslope and heading for the winding wide expanse of Cantua Creek as it flowed serenely toward the salt marsh, passing by the northern end of the remuda's grazing field. Other shots rang out.

**Scott was in shock... **it had happened so fast and now his prized gelding was receding in the distance, heading toward the creek. But his first duty was to see to his father, still lying on the ground with Brother Paul already kneeling at his side. As they helped him to his feet Murdoch assured them he was unhurt... just stunned... and in more ways than one. An incredible revelation had come to him as he lay there while two horses danced over him without a single hoof touching his body—he had just shaken hands with his elusive third son... and scared him off. But he didn't mention this... instead, he asked, somewhat shakily, "What the hell just happened?"

Scott's eyes were narrowed to slits and his lips compressed in a thin angry line—a sure indication he was in a rage. "That bastard 'breed just stole Charlemagne... and when I catch him..."

Murdoch paled. "Scott... there's something I..."

"I'll personally hang him from the highest tree on Lancer," Scott swore. And Murdoch knew he meant it.

By now man and horse were a mere speck, just crossing the creek into a tree line with a thick brushy understory. Murdoch was appalled to see Gabriel McClanahan laying the barrel of the always primed and ready-to-fire Dickert across the picket rail, checking to make sure his fire field was clear. He licked one finger and held it up to gauge wind drift, then calculated for azimuth.

Before Murdoch could find his voice to stop him, Gabe sighted again and with infinite gentleness squeezed the trigger. He thought he saw the rider lurch to the right just a tad but wasn't positive and that aggravated him—he almost always got a clean kill.

"Sorry 'bout thet, Murdo..." the old man apologized, fumbling in a jacket pocket for a fresh chaw, "I fergets she do pull ta the right a dab. Howsumever, pretty shore ah winged 'im."

Murdoch just stood there, speechless, as Sheriff Val Crawford approached and introduced Marshal Eugene Sammons amidst the squawkings of Jerry O'Doul and Kenny Kelly. Running hellbent for leather up the path from the chuckwagon were Jellifer Hoskins and Sister Mary Catriona, flying skirts revealing very un-nunlike trousers and riding boots underneath. The three _vaqueros_ waiting for their horses huddled together in consternation... at a safe distance. The remaining two wranglers, Ronnie Goldman and Chucho Melendez, were tearing up the hill on their ponies.

**As bedlam raged around him** on the grassy knoll, Murdoch pulled himself together and boomed for attention. Depending on the owner, confused, angry, appalled, excited or expectant faces turned his way. First he dismissed all non-essential personnel, ordering them to get back to work. For everyone else an explanation was in order and he was prepared to give it, as soon as they regrouped at the pavilion. Problem was, it wasn't a one-size-fits-all explanation and time was of the essence.

With everyone seated at a table and coffee passed around, the _patrón_ outlined the situation in the vaguest terms possible, beginning with the nuclear fact that the young man who'd just absconded with Señor Scott's horse—this _Sombra_ Joey—was _HIS SON_. They'd just have to accept his word for that—now was not the time for an historical recitation. The assemblage was dumbfounded into thirty seconds of muteness before a babble of voices arose, including Scott's—angriest and most demanding of all. To their credit, Paul and Cat had not broken cover and were quietly occupying a seat somewhat apart from the others, their faces unreadable. But then, no one was looking at _them._

Murdoch roared at everyone to shut the hell up—the first order of business was locating the young man, who may or may not be injured (Murdoch waved off McClanahan's profuse apologies... he couldn't have known). No way of knowing if the youth was armed and/or dangerous. Best assume he carried _some_ sort of weapon on his person and _would_ resist capture. Best be prepared to subdue him with minimum force and deliver him to the _hacienda_, bound if necessary.

In the interim, Vicente Serrato had returned from one of his spot checks on another camp and was leaning on the let-down work surface of the chuckwagon while Cochie brought him up to speed on developments. They were well within hearing distance of the meeting... and within visual range of both Murdoch's guilt-ridden face and the hurt expression on Scott's. Vicente, particularly, was taking note of the _patrón's_ body language—his command posture and performance effectively preventing the son from approaching the father for an explanation of this betrayal... for the withholding of such intimate family knowledge.

"_Muy malo!_" he remarked to Cochie, shaking his head morosely. "The son will not easily forgive the father for this second deception!"

The cook nodded in agreement. He, too, understood how difficult it had been, those first few days and weeks, for Scott and Johnny to each come to terms with the existence of the other, thrown together as they'd been with no prior knowledge.

**Gabriel McClanahan immediately volunteered** to lead the search party—tracking was his business, after all. He requested two assistants, at least one of them a close enough friend of the missing lad to maybe have a good chance of talking him into surrender. Vicente stepped forward to volunteer himself and Aaron Goldman, Jody's nearest associate. Murdoch agreed.

Scott wanted to go. Murdoch told him no, he was needed elsewhere. Sammons, too, insisted on going until Murdoch pointed out that his presence would frighten the boy further. The marshal accepted that determination with the proviso he'd be granted access to the fugitive after he was apprehended.

The rancher then put forth the second but equally important consideration—his _other_ missing son... _undoubtedly_ armed _AND_ dangerous and under the mistaken belief he was fleeing from prosecution. No doubt he _would_ resist if cornered. No, Murdoch did _not_ know how this had come about, but that was the situation.

At this news, Scott's burgeoning and not-so-private outrage was immediately sidelined. _Johnny was in trouble!_ His little brother... his _real_ little brother... needed him! He now also understood what his father needed of him. He and Johnny's best friend Sheriff Val Crawford were the logical choices here—the only two who could talk Johnny down when found—but only if Val went in the capacity of private citizen rather than lawman. Marshal Sammons agreed without reservation, now that it had been made abundantly clear that there _were_ two JMLancers and Johnny wasn't the one he was after.

Murdoch announced that he, Jelly, Scott, Val and the marshal would be immediately returning to the _hacienda_ via horseback... the fastest way to travel. Scott and Val would pick up Johnny's trail from there. Brother Paul, Sister Mary Catriona and Chucho would follow with the supply wagon on its return trip.

The meeting broke up and the attendees dispersed to gather up their gear while Vicente hoofed it to the remuda to round up mounts and inform Ronnie of his secondment. Within an hour they were packed, loaded, saddled and otherwise ready to move out.


	44. Chapter 44

_Chapter 44: _**A CONVERGENCE OF FATES**

**Somewhere west of Condor Camp...** Charlemagne didn't hesitate to leap into the shallow river and splash across to scramble up the opposite bank. Just as horse and rider attained the shelter of a grove of immature alders, something slammed into Jody's right shoulder. He assumed it was a sprung-back branch. As Charlie plowed through a dense understory of what seemed like every variety of thorny shrub native to Southern California, Jody was forced to hunch over the horn and use his arms to shield his face. Vicious spines tore at his clothing and and both his and the horse's hides. Low-hanging branches pummeled the rider and threatened to sweep him from the saddle.

Charlie had been fractious and full of the devil when he'd been brought out of the remuda. He hadn't been allowed much opportunity to stretch his legs at top speed in many days and was taking full advantage of it. Breaking out of the underbrush, he streaked across open meadows, careened around larger trees and boulders, leapt smaller obstacles without breaking stride. His rider clung tightly, stirrupless and having lost the reins. The gelding ran flat out until he couldn't anymore, slowing down of his own accord to a canter and then a trot. Finally he ran out of wind and stopped, splay-legged and blowing.

Jody slipped down and managed to retrieve a rein, wrapping it tightly around his left hand. Only as he clumsily shortened the stirrups to fit first one side and then the other did it sink in just whose horse he'd absconded with. Of all the rotten luck! Both he and Charlie were streaked and spattered with blood. Adjusting the stirrups seemed to take forever as his right arm was refusing to cooperate. Jody took a few minutes to pry out the worst of the thorns and spines he could reach on both himself and the horse. Some were embedded too deeply to get at... especially the one in his shoulder that was stinging like crazy. Scott would go off the rails when he saw how badly Charlie's coat was marred.

A peek back in the direction they'd just come from revealed no followers. Which didn't mean they weren't there, just out of visual range for the moment. On foot, his own heart still pounding like a trip hammer, Jody walked the horse for a while until he judged the animal cooled down enough to ride again.

Remounting was problematic. The persistent ache in Jody's hip had been insidiously creeping down his left leg and up into his back, the joint stiff and unyielding. The biting pain in his right shoulder prevented him from raising his arm high enough to be of any use. After a fair bit of maneuvering he got Charlie positioned near a boulder he could use as a mounting block.

By the time he finally got himself situated back in the saddle, Jody was drenched in sweat and slightly dizzy from the exertion. His shirt was stuck disagreeably to his body with gummy, partly coagulated scabs and his denims were crusty with dried blood at the edges of the tears.

"I hope you know where you're going, Charles, 'cause I sure don't."

**Taking stock of his surroundings,** Jody realized he knew more than he thought about his general location. Ahead lay a rumpled landscape of rock formations with little in the way of vegetation, running right up to the crooked escarpment that had been pointed out, on the trip out to the camp, as Oak Ridge. There wasn't an oak tree in sight.

Allowed slack rein, Charlie'd been following a game trail to where it crossed over a perpendicular wagon track—this would be the Yokut Trace, which Jody remembered encountering on the way east with the remuda. He could head north along the road and fetch up in Spanish Wells... but then what? He had no money, no kit and his horse was back at Condor. South led to Morro Coyo, as he recalled. Same problem.

On top of that, with the battering he'd taken coming through the brush, Jody's physical integrity was deteriorating at an alarming rate. Why the hell had he run... after coming all this way and going through all this subterfuge to meet his biological father and brothers? Logic belatedly dictated that if it were protection he sought, then he should have looked to _them_. That same logic was telling him—in no uncertain terms—that his only hope now was making it as far as the _hacienda_. The girl Teresa would take his side... and he had a gut feeling that Johnny would back him up also... once he revealed his real identity and presuming Johnny was still there.

Jody decided to let Charlie choose the way, operating on the premise that a horse will generally head for its home pasture. The big red gelding turned south without hesitation, proceeding at a steady pace and pausing to snatch up a mouthful of bunchgrass as he headed unerringly for the comfort of his own barn... or so Jody hoped. The sun was no longer overhead and he had no idea how many miles lay between him and his destination.

**To keep himself awake,** if not alert, Jody played mind games... envisioning the valley as it might and probably would appear one hundred years in the future. He'd studied enough about civilization, of economics and demographics, of agronomy and the relentless advance of agrarian societies, to know that someday soon these wide open spaces would be gone—empire-builders such as the Lancers wouldn't be able to dominate it forever. With proper modern irrigation techniques, a rich-soiled valley like the San Joaquin would be filled with produce-yielding farms connected to small market towns that would evolve into hubs of commerce supporting the larger coastal cities. Sad but inevitable.

Some of Jody's more liberal and far-seeing professors were already confidently prophesying that—given the technological advances in the past half-century, which were expanding exponentially at an astronomical rate—within the next half-century the average United States citizen (never mind those of older, even more advanced societies in Europe!) would be enjoying in his private dwelling such amenities such as hot and cold running water, plumbed commodes that automatically carried away waste, electrical lighting to keep the dark at bay, furnaces that employed piped gas to regulate interior climate, telegraph-like devices that would carry the human voice around the globe and into the private home. Many of these innovations already existed in large urban concentrations such as New York City and San Francisco. There was even much speculation and argument about Jules Verne-inspired horseless carriages and flying machines which, one professor had enthusiastically assured Jody, he would see in his lifetime!

**Also, for the past hour,** Jody'd been worrying that he might be about to experience one of the spells that had plagued him since childhood... when the beatings had started. Martha and Aunt Luisa called these his 'lost time episodes' and had described for him his behavior during those incidents, which could be either 'passive' or 'active'.

Usually Jody had ample forewarning of a passive episode—bouts of vertigo and the sensation of his mind telescoping inwards. In this state he would retreat into a fugue that lasted for minutes or hours—eating, drinking, getting up and going to bed or the outhouse when told or led by the hand but otherwise showing no signs of recognition and unresponsive to attempts to get his attention. In the classroom he would sit wherever he was parked, hugging himself and sometimes humming softly, rocking back and forth and staring out the window. It was Martha who took it upon herself to explain to each new tutor her older brother's recurring _'estados de fuga'_, that he would come out of it on his own—no need to trouble their father. These had tapered off with the advent of adolescence.

'Active' episodes were rarer and usually followed a traumatic event. It was in active mode, while outwardly functioning and interacting normally, that Jody would disappear. Days later he would emerge with no memory of where he'd gone or what he'd done in the meantime. It had been explained to him that this differed from dissociative amnesia in that he was able to recall with distinct clarity what had happened _before_... just not what happened _during_.

Jody's thoughts naturally turned to the night of his father's... _step_father's, he corrected himself... denouement. (At least he _hoped_ the old bastard was dead!) He remembered everything that had happened up until his retreat to the terrace. Then he'd awakened one morning to discover that a week had elapsed and he was very far from home, flat on his back in a native's adobe hut with a bloody great hole blown in his hip. He wondered why this wasn't happening this time...


	45. Chapter 45

_Chapter 45: _**ROAD RAGE**

**Yokut Trace, southbound...** Jody had just passed a turnoff to a barely discernible track that abruptly disappeared among jumbles of sandstone boulders. He fancied he could hear _singing_ coming from somewhere in that direction, the faint echoes of two tremulous voices... _Great, now I'm hallucinating..._

The heretofore straight road had begun winding through an area of random outcroppings that precluded forward visibility. It was approaching a defile between two vertical slabs of rock just wide enough to permit passage of a wagon, beyond which it curved sharply to the west. Jody dimly perceived that this would be a prime place for an ambush... or an almighty collision if two vehicles happened to be approaching at speed from opposing directions, although traffic congestion was a highly unlikely consideration out here in the middle of nowhere.

**Yokut Trace, northbound...** Johnny was frustrated beyond belief. When he'd awakened at dawn, he'd been gratified to find his elderly steed on his feet and still breathing, though he himself felt like death warmed over. After attending to his morning constitutional and with a hunk of cheese in a stale biscuit under his belt, he'd made ready to decamp. As anticipated, heaving the saddle into position had taken every iota of willpower he possessed and hurt like hell. Bullet had stood splay-legged and dejected as Johnny loaded the rest of his gear and reached underneath to snag the cinch, at which point Bullet had turned a rheumy eye on his tormentor, wheezed mournfully and slowly sank to the ground. The unsecured saddle fell off.

An hour went by. Bullet staggered to his feet. Johnny got up from the rock he'd been sitting on while trying to talk himself out of putting a bullet between Bullet's eyes. On went the pad and the saddle. On went the bedroll, the warbag and the saddlebags. Down Bullet went with a groan. Another hour went by, with a repeat performance. On the fourth attempt Johnny managed to get the cinch snugged up tight before Bullet went into his dying swan act. This time Johnny sat on top of him and waited... and waited. Eventually Bullet got up again... and realized he'd been snookered. With hope in his heart but keeping his expectations within bounds, Johnny aimed his ancient mount toward the mouth of the arroyo and freedom.

It was getting on toward mid-afternoon and not much progress had been made. Bullet would shuffle along for a hundred yards, then stop to rest before eking out another hundred yards. Go, stop. Go, stop. At this rate, the rider forlornly calculated, they might reach the Oregon border by... oh... Christmas. They were coming up on that snaky portion of road the Mexican workers called _'La Serpentina'_, the chief feature of which was a matched pair of enormous vertical sandstone slabs appropriately labeled _'Apretón del Hombre Gordo'_—Fat Man's Squeeze.

Ordinarily Johnny would have detoured around such an obvious ambush site. But he was tired, aggravated, hurting and torn between prudence and the need to be much further north than he presently was. A one-eyed octogenarian on a burro could have easily got around ahead of him by now and be lying in wait on the other side, waiting to pick him off with an antique musket. And at their current speed, he'd be a nonagenarian before Bullet made it to the other side of the constricted space. Johnny didn't at all like the fact that the road took a sharp eastward turn into the defile and that he wouldn't be able to see what might be arriving from the other direction. And he didn't like that he couldn't see who or what might be coming up behind him, either... again because of twists in the roadway.

**Also heading north** and unknowingly closing in on Johnny, Stan and Ollie rode along in morose silence on their rented horses, each lost in his own gloomy thoughts until Stan spied a cluster of still shiny road apples and pulled up to investigate. Nice clear tracks, too. Neither man was any good at tracking but these were glaringly fresh.

"Whaddya think?" Ollie ventured. "Think it might be him?"

"Nah," Stan said, climbing back on his horse. "We couldn't be that lucky. Probably just a hunter."

"You're prob'ly right," Ollie sighed. "Lord, what I'd give for a cold beer right about now."

"Quitcherbitchin'," Stan ordered curtly. They giddy-upped to their mounts and moved forward. Five minutes later they rounded a curve and saw a rider not two hundred yards ahead, just sitting there on an unmoving horse. Stan reined in again and signaled for silence, digging a telescope out of a saddlebag. The rider hadn't seen them yet.

Stan adjusted the telescope until the rider came into sharp relief. He couldn't believe his eyes. The man had just knocked his hat back on its storm strings and was mopping his clearly visible face with a bandanna.

"I'll be dipped in shit! It's him, alright. Have a look." He handed the device over to his partner and unlimbered his Springfield from its boot.

As Ollie squinched an eye shut and took his turn, Stan calmly hefted his weapon, sighted and fired once. Fired again. At the first shot Ollie's horse shied and he poked himself in the eye with the telescope.

"Goddammit!" he yelled, and then... horrified, "What're you doin'? We're 'sposed to bring 'im back alive!" When he looked again, the horse and rider had disappeared.

"Now you've done it, you idiot! If he's packin' and we chase him into them rocks we'll be sittin' ducks!"

"Shit." Stan said, replacing the rifle and reaching for the 'scope. "I was aimin' for the horse. Got him instead. Come on... he can't get far." (Stan and Ollie weren't very good at sharpshooting, either.)

"I ain't goin' in them rocks! I say we ride_ around_ an' try to cut him off."

Stan wanted to argue about it but Ollie was adamant. "Nossir. You can ride in there if you wanna but I ain't lookin' to get plugged." He pulled off to the right and spurred his horse. "You comin' or plannin' to sit there all day?"

Stan grunted but took off after him.

**The first bullet** that whizzed by and ricocheted off a rock reawakened a dusty memory buried in the former cavalry mount's ancient muddled mind and its report spurred him to action. Like the biblical warhorse, Bullet leaped like a locust and snorted majestically _(Job 39:19-25), _pawing the air—which is why the second round took his rider in the right thigh instead of in the head.

Though not quite swifter than a leopard nor fiercer than an evening wolf _(Habakkuk 1:8)_, Bullet pinned his ears back and launched himself at full gallop through the Fat Man's Squeeze. Johnny knew he'd been hit but it was all he could do to hang on, blinded by the sweat-soaked bandanna that had plastered itself across his face.

On the other size of the Squeeze, Charlie had skidded to a halt at the first gunshot, head snapping up and ears pricking forward. Jody was almost fully doubled over and unprepared for the muscled crest to rise up and smite him in the nose. He jerked up and both hands automatically went to his face just as Charlie jumped sideways to avoid colliding with the apparition hurtling out of the rocky slot. But not far enough. And, of course, as a terrified horse will do—Charlie unleashed a high-velocity manure torpedo as he flew.

Bullet's head, neck and shoulder plowed into Charlie's shoulder and both horses went down screaming. Johnny pitched forward over Bullet's neck like a greased pig out of a chute, his head slamming directly into Jody's belly. They both went flying, rolling over each other in the dust and manure.

Only one horse got up... shaken but with relatively little damage other than favoring a foreleg. Bullet lay unmoving in the middle of the road. The old cavalry charger's mighty heart had given up at the moment of impact. His race was run.


	46. Chapter 46

_Chapter 46: _**DEAD HORSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD**

**In the meantime,** a mule-drawn two-wheeled _carro_ had been squeaking its way down the side trail Jody had noticed earlier, occupied by one Juan Sebastián Espinoza, his wife of sixty years, Margarita Guadalupe, and a load of _pulque_ and _mezcal_ in clay jugs stoppered with bamboo plugs. The old couple had lived all their lives and raised a round dozen children in a four-room stone and adobe wattle-roofed hut in the shadow of Oak Ridge. They were one of the families grandfathered in when Murdoch Lancer had bought the property. Juan Sebastián propagated several acres of maguey plants from which he fermented the _pulque_ and distilled the _mezcal_, later bottled in glazed clay jars Margarita Guadalupe made in her earth kiln along with ornamental pottery for the housewife trade. Once a month they took a day trip to Morro Coyo to peddle their wares at the Saturday market.

Juan Sebastián and Margarita Guadalupe had decided that in honor of their diamond anniversary, they were going to celebrate in high style with an evening on the town and an overnight stay in one of Morro Coyo's finer _posadas_, after which they would attend Sunday Mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Misery before trundling home.

The Espinozas had been lustily singing earlier—partly due to the sheer joy of the day and partly to ward off the malevolent spirits which everyone knew inhabited these desolate rocks through which they must pass. They'd arrived at the end of the trail and Juan Sebastián turned his mule, Flore, onto the Yokut Trace.

At the first gunshot, which echoed from the _Hombre Gordo_, which was not yet visible, Juan Sebastián halted the _carro_. At the second one, he and Margarita Guadalupe exchanged troubled glances. That's where the very worst spirits resided—those of the dead settlers who'd been trapped there by hostile natives, and of dead natives who'd been annihilated by Spanish soldiers. Perhaps something of the sort was going on there right now.

But there were no more gunshots and Juan Sebastián decided it was probably just a hunter. He urged Flore forward and presently they rolled within sight of the entrance to _Hombre Gordo_. Juan Sebastián pulled up again at the extraordinary spectacle confronting them—a riderless saddled horse stood alone. Another horse, also saddled, lay in the middle of the road. Off to the side, one man lay atop another, forming an 'X'. Juan Sebastián feared they were dead and said as much to his wife. He didn't want to go look and make sure... but he had to. He and Margarita Guadalupe crossed themselves and kissed their thumbs. The old man slowly got out of the cart and edged toward the bodies.

As Juan Sebastián drew nearby, the one on top moaned and the old man jumped back a few inches. But the closer he looked, the more he realized he _knew_ this man—Señor Lancer's younger son, whom Señor Cipriano had brought by many months ago to meet the Espinozas and be told of their special status on the _estancia_. He was a nice boy, this Señor Juan, very polite. He had ridden up to their holding several times since with presents of game he'd shot and other gifts from Señorita Teresa at the Big House. And now he was lying here, hurt. No question but that Juan Sebastián and Margarita Guadalupe had to convey the patrón's injured son to the Big House as soon as possible, even if it meant interrupting their anniversary plans! He shouted to Margarita Guadalupe to come and help him.

Together they gently rolled Señor Juan off the other person and managed to drag him over to the shade of a small tree at the side of the road. Then they went back for the second man.

_¡Los santos nos protejan!_ They looked down in confusion... over to Señor Juan... back to this one. They had met Señor Scott as well... but no one had said anything about a _third_ brother, as this one obviously must be! Or... Margarita Guadalupe whispered nervously... he could be a demon... an _espíritu gemelo_... a spirit twin!

Juan Sebastián advised his wife not to be silly... look at him... look at all that blood... demons don't bleed like that! This one they also dragged over to the tree.

What are we to do, Margarita Guadalupe inquired anxiously. Good question. The young men had to be gotten to the Lancer _hacienda,_ but was the cart big enough to hold all four of them, or Flore strong enough to pull them? Juan Sebastián scoffed when Margarita Guadalupe suggested he ride the horse—he'd never ridden anything larger than a small mule in his life and was too old to start now. Besides, it was lame. As he saw it, they had two choices: He could unhitch and unharness Flore and ride her to the Big House to fetch help, leaving Margarita Guadalupe alone to watch over the injured young men in this vale of evil spirits (uacceptable, she snorted!)... _or..._

They could unload some of the jugs to make enough room for the two men. Of course, it being a short cart, their feet would have to hang off the back. This required a brief consultation on a marketing issue: A jug of _mezcal_ fetched three times the price of the same volume of _pulque_. Freshly brewed _pulque_, however, had an abbreviated shelf life of approximately twenty-four to thirty-six hours. A time-detracting detour to the Lancer hacienda would seriously reduce its value and saleability. But their duty was clear. In the end it was decided to offload the jugs containing the _mezcal_ and secret them behind some rocks and shrubs.

**While they stood there arguing** Johnny started coming around. Tearing a piece from her second-best petticoat (the best one was carefully folded along with her Sunday dress in a bundle in the cart) Margarita Guadalupe tenderly blotted his face with water poured from their lone goatskin. Having birthed sixteen children and raised twelve (nine of those boys), Margarita Guadalupe was no stranger to dirty faces, even one slimed with blood and manure.

Johnny recognized the seamed dried-apple face and thanked her, calling her 'Little Mother', which pleased her mightily. She asked him how he had come to be shot in the leg and he seemed to have trouble remembering exactly how that had happened. At this she clucked in concern and investigated the hole in his trousers, then extracted a penknife from a pocket and sliced through the material to better examine the wound. Yes, there was blood oozing from a hole, but not pulsing ribbons of it. She turned around and ripped off more lengths of petticoat, devising a compression bandage. Gave him sips of water from the goatskin.

Groans came from the neighboring body and Johnny turned his head to look, his eyes widening. _"YOU!"_

Jody came awake very quickly, also turning his head. _"YOU!"_

Johnny's eyes strayed to Charlie, standing nearby with head hung low. The animal was in an appalling state—mud-spattered and filthy, mane and tail snarled, coat matted and rimed with dried sweat and blood. Even more alarming were the dark stains on the cantle and skirts of the saddle. Johnny felt a rising panic that constricted the muscles of his chest and shot a fresh spear of pain throughout his body. If Scott's horse was that bad off, then Scott himself must be...

"_What have you done with my brother?!"_ He rolled to his side and socked Jody in the face. Margarita Guadalupe had already sprung away to stand next to her husband.

Jody put his one good arm up protectively and tried to eel away but Johnny was on top of him, striking at his head and torso. _"Where's my brother?!"_

_"__Get off me!"_ Jody yelled back, backhanding Johnny on the ear. In a second they were tussling, hitting each other as hard as they could... which wasn't very hard.

**Margarita Guadalupe stood back** and let them wrestle, rolling her eyes to the heavens. This, too, was nothing new to her—brothers beating the _estofado_ out of each other. If they were dogs she would have thrown a bucket of water over them. But they weren't and she didn't have any to spare, just the precious little left in the goatskin. She couldn't see where the blood was leaking out of the other young man, but there was plenty of it—the back of his shirt was soaked. It couldn't all be just the cuts and scratches. Señor Juan's bandage had slipped, allowing blood to stream down his pants leg.

In any event, neither one was capable of actually getting to his feet, which meant there was little likelihood of their doing any serious damage to each other from horizontal positions. The fight was devolving to mostly slapping, gasping and grunting. Sooner or later they would give up. Or one would pass out from blood loss.

Five minutes into the altercation Jody and Johnny were too out of breath to continue. Both had flopped down on their backs, panting heavily. Margarita Guadalupe gave some passing thought to face-cleaning, but that really wouldn't accomplish much. Instead, she asked Juan Sebastián to fetch two jugs of _pulque_, offering the sour liquid to each in turn until the first jug was depleted. And the second one. The boys drifted into semi-consciousness.

Juan Sebastián and Margarita Guadalupe may have been old (in their eighties) but they enjoyed rugged good health after a lifetime of hard manual labor, and certainly weren't feeble. First they offloaded the _mezcal_, hiding it behind a small berm of rocks and weeds, then between the two of them hoisted Johnny into the back of the cart.

It was when they attempted to lift the unnamed one that Margarita Guadalupe discovered the bullet hole in _that_ one's back and signaled Juan Sebastián to hold up a moment. Off came more strips of petticoat, with Margarita Guadalupe grumbling she'd soon be down to her pantaloons. Noting that this wound was partly coagulated and therefore hours older, she fashioned another makeshift bandage before the inert body was slung into the back of the cart alongside Señor Juan's.

Another conference ensued. Juan Sebastián estimated that the combined weight of the bodies greatly exceeded that of the bottles of _mezcal_ which had been removed. Concerned that the additional burden would prove too much for their aged mule, he announced he would walk alongside the cart and lead the lame horse. Margarita Guadalupe climbed aboard, adjusting her gaily multi-colored goat's hair _rebozo_ around her shoulders and stashing a half-empty jug between her feet where it could be easily reached. (_Pulque _did not travel well to begin with, and once you uncorked the stuff it had to be consumed fairly quickly before it went bad!)

Just as Margarita Guadalupe prepared to take up the reins, a series of faint, unearthly shrieks echoed from somewhere to the north. She paused long enough to bless herself, kiss her thumb, murmur an incantation against evil spirits, swish a mouthful of _pulque_ and spit it out to the side before handing the jug to her beloved so that he could the same. Thus protected, she returned her attention to setting the dozing Flore in motion, which entailed some lengthy encouragement with snaps of the whip.

No sooner had they entered the cleft in the rocks than two saddled but riderless horses came plunging around the bend and galloping up behind them. Charlie and Flore stopped short, whickering and braying (respectively) in greeting. The two horses slowed to a trot and then to a walk, stopping altogether when they reached the halted cart, the sight of something familiar having ameliorated their fright.

Juan Sebastián and Margarita Guadalupe debated whether these were real flesh-and-blood animals or merely spirit manifestations which—if ignored—would eventually evaporate. Either way, the pair refused to be shooed away and followed closely as the cart continued on its way.

**Margarita Guadalupe drove** with one ear tuned behind her while discussing with Juan Sebastián, trudging alongside, which would be the better course—continue on to Morro Coyo where there was a doctor, proceed directly to the _hacienda_ across country, or follow the Trace on down to where it intersected with the main drive to the house. No, Morro Coyo was too far away. And while following the established route meant many extra miles, the risk of getting lost or stuck in open land was too great. Besides which, they'd not thought to carry a lantern as they hadn't anticipated being on the road after dark.

From time to time one of their casualties would jolt awake, remembering that the fist fight hadn't yet been concluded. Endeavoring to prevent its resumption, Margarita Guadalupe would halt the cart, climb down, and pop the plug on another jug of _pulque_. At this rate, Juan Sebastián griped, they would be lucky to make morning Mass by two Sundays from now. Margarita Guadalupe observed that she could not understand—with as much _pulque_ as she had poured down their throats—why they were not totally insensate. She was becoming seriously annoyed.

After another mile of stop-and-go intermittent scuffling, a latent spurt of energy found Johnny with both hands wrapped around Jody's throat, although not exerting enough force to cut off his wind.

Margarita Guadalupe heaved a great sigh. Pulling Flore to a stop once again, she removed her substantial bulk from the driver's bench. This was getting beyond tiresome and she'd had enough.

"I'm... gonna... KILL ya!" Johnny was raving with bared teeth.

Jody was desperately trying to peel off his assailant's fingers with his one working hand. "My father... might have... something to... say about... that..." he wheezed.

"Oh yeah?" Johnny rasped. "Lemme tell ya somethin'... my ole man can whip yours any day a the week...!"

"Leggo a me... you... booger-eatin'... moron..." Jody croaked, "Your father... _IS... _my father!"

Which is when, with admirable restraint, Margarita Guadalupe applied now empty clay jug to the back of Johnny's head with enough force to knock him out cold just as Jody threw up on him.

**Thirty minutes earlier...** Stan and Ollie were in a sorry state. It had seemed like such a simple job—travel to the Lancer Ranch in the San Joaquin Valley, where their prey was most likely to be found. All they had to do was locate the little sunuvabitch, grab him and bundle him back to dear old daddy. How hard could that be for experienced bounty hunters such as themselves?

Riding up on him like that, alone and ripe for the taking, had been a piece of sheer good luck... except for his having disappeared into the cleft in the rocks after Stan's ill-thought attempt to shoot the horse out from under him. They'd circled north and picked up the road, but an examination of the ground revealed only one fairly recent set of tracks—heading south. Not their man. So where _was_ theirs? They should have found _his_ tracks heading north... if indeed he'd made it this far.

Stan theorized he might have stopped to answer a call of nature, or take a lunch break, or passed out and fallen off his horse... whatever. Theoretically, then, if they headed south they would meet him head on.

Unless, Ollie posited, he was holed up just _this_ side of the pass, drawing a bead on the exit, poised to shoot _them_ as soon as they emerged. Stan reasoned that if that were the case, then _they_ would have the advantage of approaching from an unexpected direction.

Stan finally succeeded in persuading his partner to mount up. They didn't get far. A hundred yards along they identified where, even more recently, a wheeled vehicle had joined the wider road from a pig trail, its tracks overlaying that of the solitary horseman.

Up ahead and around a bend, the tops of those two tremendous standing rocks protruded above the surrounding jumbles of sandstone. Ollie reined in again, reiterating his concern that they somehow needed to know what lay around that bend _before_ they got there. Off to the right a clump of stunted cottonwoods guarded the entrance to a small canyon containing a murky pond. As their mounts took an immediate interest in the water and the grass surrounding it, the men didn't bother tethering them, just looped the reins out of the way.

Ollie suggested that _Stan_ climb up one of those convenient rockpiles and do a recce while _he_ kept an eye on the horses out of sight in those trees. (Ollie didn't do heights very well.) Stan ground his teeth, but to humor his paranoid sidekick, he agreed.

**At the summit **a handy clutch of squat bushes provided concealment above a sheer dropoff to the road below. Hatless, Stan wiggled underneath as far as he dared before poking his head up. The telescope afforded him an up close and unobstructed view of the scene below—one riderless horse, one obviously dead horse (looking very much like the one he'd tried to shoot), two apparently dead men (both looking like the one he and Ollie were pursuing but only one wearing clothes he recognized), one mule hitched to a two-wheeled cart full of pottery, and an old Mexican couple. But wait! The old woman was attending to one of the men (the one in the right clothing), so he must not be dead. Piece of luck, there!

Stan continued to watch as the old couple removed some of the pottery and hid it near the road before loading up the two bodies. How convenient! All he and Ollie had to do now was saunter on down the road, overtake the cart, offer the owners a fair price for it and the mule, decant the superfluous body, and be on their merry (and lucrative) way back to Chula Vista with their prize.

Stan slithered back out, thoroughly pleased, and began his descent. All was well until some thirty feet from the floor of the canyon, he missed a toehold. Ollie was standing directly beneath him, looking up, their mounts grazing nearby.

Scrabbling for purchase on the rockwall, Stan dislodged a quantity of loose shale before freeing several large chunks of sandstone and dropping the telescope. Ollie was too preoccupied spitting out sand and knuckling dirt from his eyes to notice the incoming missile. He howled as rocks rained down on him, causing him to fall backwards just as the brass telescope scored a direct hit on the bridge of his nose. Ollie screamed like a girl. Stan screeched as he tumbled the rest of the way down, landing square on top of his partner and viciously twisting an ankle in the process.

Unnerved by the squalling men and the shower of pebbles bouncing off their rumps, the two livery horses took off like rockets. The bounty hunters' luck had just petered out.


	47. Chapter 47

_Chapter 47: _**AN ENGAGEMENT OF MENTAL GEARS**

**At the****_ hacienda_****, much later...** Teresa and Maria Elena were sorting linens at the kitchen table, setting aside items that needed repair and making dispositions of sheets and pillowcases too worn for further use on beds but eminently suitable for future use as bandages, which they seemed to need an awful lot of ever since Scott and Johnny had come home.

They were not, at the moment, speaking to each other due to a tiff they'd had earlier over Maria Elena's having inadvertently told this morning's visitors where to find the Lancer men. Another of Maria Elena's grandsons, ten-year-old Chico, brother of Chucho, stuck his head in the kitchen door to announce riders on the way. He'd been scything grass way out by the entrance arch on the private drive and had spied them in the far off distance.

"Who is?" Maria Elena barked, in a bad mood and likely to stay that way for a few more hours.

"Is the _patrón_ and Señor Jelly and..."

"_¡Tonterías!_ Cannot be... all mens at camp!"

"But _Abuela_..."

"You go tell _visitantes_ go away... _patrón_ NO HERE!"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Maria Elena... whoever they are, they'll be wanting coffee. Get over yourself and put a pot on," Teresa snapped, putting down the pillowcase she was folding and whipping off her apron. "Chico, did you see Señor Juan's Barranca?"

"No, Señorita... horses all _marrónes..._"

Her eyes widened in concern... perhaps the boy was mistaken. There were other palominos on the ranch but none with a golden coat that shone so brilliantly as Johnny's not-inconspicuous Barranca. Why would Murdoch be returning on a different horse?

Chico dogging her footsteps, Teresa exited the kitchen door and followed the brick path around to the side where there was a view of the stable and barns. Sure enough, there were five riders dismounting five dark-coated horses. Faces weren't identifiable at this distance but body shapes were. She wanted to rush right over there but checked herself... soon enough they'd come in with any news. She asked Chico to please start bringing in more wood for the stove.

Back indoors, the two women hastened to clear off the table and fire up the stove. When Inés drifted through with an armload of laundry, Maria Elena bade her find the other two maids and send them down to the kitchen where all hands were needed.

**Riding together** until reaching the Yokut Trace, the Condor contingent had split. Gabe and his party turned south, following Charlemagne's tracks. Murdoch and his men continued west, on a straight approach to the homebase. Both groups were, of course, totally unaware of events transpiring three miles south at the Fat Man's Squeeze.

As anxious as Murdoch was to get there, he recognized the inadvisability of pushing the horses too hard and held everyone to alternately walking and jogging. There would be no remounts waiting for them and they needed to conserve their animals' energy.

It took two hours to reach the _hacienda_. Once there—even though there were many willing teenage hands, boys and girls, to take charge of the animals—Murdoch forced himself to adhere to patriarchal command mode, ensuring the horses were seen to first before the riders headed for the house. He cautioned the other four men to assume an air of orderly purpose as well—no need to alarm the women within any more than they already were.

He needn't have worried... Teresa greeted them under the portico with the cool air of a hostess whose guests had merely been out for a stroll around the gardens while awaiting a luncheon service. Pointedly invited to wash up, the men obediently queued in the hallway to await their turns in the facility.

The kitchen was a model of efficient activity. In the time it took the riders to make themselves presentable, the table was prepared to receive diners. Inés was ferrying cold foods from the icebox and pantry. Two coffeepots perked on the big stove where Ivelisse and Maria Elena were wielding enormous iron skillets. Nereida was on her knees, poking lengths of kindling into the firebox under the copper reservoir. In a clipped, low-key tone, Teresa was dispensing instructions to the maids regarding après-lunch redding up of guest quarters.

Murdoch caught his ward's eye with a quizzical grin, which she returned with a lifted eyebrow. She had to be bursting with questions, as was he. He had, of course, received from Marshal Sammons a full report on the reception he and Sheriff Crawford had received. Surely she knew she'd be called upon to account for how Johnny had been tipped off. But before Murdoch could take _her_ to task for having blatantly lied to the pair, he owed _her_ an explanation of how the confusion had come about in the first place.

As the other men appeared one by one, Teresa directed them to their seats. Murdoch was amazed and amused at Teresa's ability to deal with an extraordinary situation with such aplomb. When had the sunny-natured little girl he'd helped raise turn into this dreadnought of domestic organization?

**As if Murdoch didn't** have enough on his mind, he was also deeply disturbed at his elder... _eldest_... son's sour attitude. Granted, Scott had had justification for anger at having his favorite horse stolen right from under his nose... but Murdoch had assumed—had hoped, at least—that once the identity of the thief was made known, Scott's pragmatic nature would prevail. So far that wasn't happening. After they'd been on the road awhile, it had come to Murdoch that, without any knowledge of Jody's background, all Scott knew about him was what he'd learned in camp—which was generally not laudatory. Murdoch of course had no knowledge of what had happened on the ranch from hiring day forward... of Jody's prior contact with his brothers during and after the foaling emergency, or of his having already spent one night under Lancer's roof.

On the ride back to the hacienda, Murdoch had tried repeatedly to gain Scott's attention, but the latter had hung back, preferring to converse with Marshal Sammons—no doubt getting the rundown on all Jody's legal transgressions. Murdoch wanted to lay out _his_ side of the story... that stealing a horse and running away were the actions of a frightened and troubled individual, not a career criminal. He hadn't had the time then... and he didn't have it now.

Murdoch had to ask himself why this situation was so different from Scott and Johnny's coming together almost a year ago. Their initial conflict had been resolved within weeks simply because they'd been starting from scratch, each not knowing of the other's existence, thus having no pre-conceived notions that needed to be ironed out. They grudgingly accepted that neither one had the advantage of favoritism... or so Murdoch had thought all along.

Was this Scott's problem... jealousy? Was Murdoch at fault for not having recognized signs, for not having taken into consideration the inevitability of sibling rivalry? He should have done... recalling from his own youth as one of four brothers the neverending jostling for eminence, for special recognition.

Murdoch had to acknowledge that, yes, Johnny did get the lion's share of his attention because it was usually he who was in trouble. The child who acted out the most always did. Anyone who'd grown up with siblings would tell you that. Murdoch should have taken into account that learning to share a parent's attention would be difficult, even painful, for boys who'd grown up as 'onlies'—even though they were adults and should have got over it long before this.

So Murdoch blamed himself for Scott's current hostility. He'd been so preoccupied with what _Johnny's_ reaction might be to the revelation of a third brother that it hadn't once occurred to him that Scott would take such deep offense. All he could claim in his own defense was that he hadn't _had_ an opportunity—between arriving at the camp and the incident that had brought them home— to speak to Scott privately. In retrospect he could see where most of this current grief could have been avoided if only he'd disclosed the circumstances sooner—to Johnny first as he was already on the scene, and to Scott as soon as he'd arrived at Condor.

Murdoch was fairly confident that Jody would be found soon. From Cochie he knew the boy was already physically compromised, with a wounded right arm and a healing hip injury that would preclude his getting anywhere far or fast on foot. He wasn't armed—Scott'd confirmed that he'd left his rifle at the chuckwagon so it wasn't in its saddle boot when Charlie'd been commandeered—and he wasn't wearing a gunbelt. He had no provisions to sustain him so he couldn't hide out for long.

Johnny, on the other hand, _was_ provisioned, armed and dangerous... especially if his unreliable mount went out on him and he was forced to hole up. They had to find Johnny first—before someone got shot or killed—and persuade him it was safe to come home.

**Having missed lunch**, the men were ravenous. Little conversation ensued as they tucked in. That in itself was a rarity at any meal in the Lancer household. No questions were asked and no explanations offered until they'd finished eating, at which time Murdoch indicated to his ward and his housekeeper to join them at the table. The three housemaids were dismissed to start on the upstairs bedrooms.

"Maria Elena... Teresa... I have something to tell you—the real reason I had to go to Los Angeles. These men have already heard some of it, but not all... and I don't really have time to go into the details... we have two missing boys... men... to find today. Bottom line is... one of our new wranglers... well, he's my son. I only found out about him last week. He's in trouble and we have to find him..."

"And because of _him_, Johnny's in bad trouble... we've got to find Johnny _first_," Scott gritted. "Better get your priorities straight... _old man!_"

Murdoch was stung and Teresa stifled a gasp. Scott was never intentionally rude... had never addressed his father in such a derogatory manner as his brother'd felt free to employ in the beginning... and still did from time to time.

Sitting next to Murdoch, Teresa laid a hand on top of his. "Are you absolutely sure about that... that he's your... son? Could there be some mistake?"

"No... no mistake, girl. I'll tell the whole story tonight... in the greatroom... after we've got everyone home safe."

"What's his name... this... um... son?" Teresa inquired after an awkward pause.

Scott cut in harshly. "You've met him, Teresa... he's Joey... from the foaling shed..."

"What's this about the foaling shed?" Murdoch wanted to know.

Teresa's mouth fell open. "_Our _Joey?

"His name's Jordan... his people call him Jody," Murdoch corrected.

"Why didn't he say who he was?"

"It's a complicated story... and not a nice one, I'm afraid."

"But how did... I mean, where did he come from?"

"His mother is... was... a lady I was... she was a guest here for a while... before you were born. Maria, you remember Pilar, don't you?"

Comprehension dawned on Maria Elena's face. "Ah yes... I remember now... that _puta cubana_... _ai!_ What a big stink that one caused... a pox on her!" Maria Elena crossed herself, kissed her thumb and mimed a spit on the floor. "You say _joven_ who favors my Juanito is _hers?"_

"Bad luck to curse the dead," Murdoch reminded her.

Teresa was staring down at her plate. "Of course... I should have seen it... I marked the resemblance that very first morning, in the bedroom..."

Murdoch narrowed his eyes and compressed his lips but decided to let it go. _Who'd been in whose bedroom... and why?_

"It seems we both have stories to tell..." she said archly, "but I agree, now isn't the time."

**Scott stood up, **smacking a hand on the table and shouting. "What we should be doing _NOW_ is finding Johnny... instead of wasting time talking about some wastrel who might... or might not... be a Lancer. Enough already... let's go!"

Murdoch had had enough. "Simmer down! We'll go when I say we go," he ordered. The marshal and the sheriff stared down into their plates, not wishing to become embroiled in a developing family feud but not having much choice about it. Jelly, for once, was keeping his mouth firmly shut.

"We already have three people on Jody's trail. Gabe McClanahan is the best tracker in the region... and Vicente knows every inch of this _estancia_ like the back of his hand. They'll find him. He's got your horse, Scott... how do you reckon Charlie's endurance and homing instinct?"

Scott shrugged. "He's in good shape and might have made a couple of miles at a dead run but he's not built for long-distance traveling... and, yeah, I'd say if he's got the bit in his teeth, he'll make straight for the barn by the shortest route possible. Especially if he loses his rider," Scott emphasized, as if hopeful for that event.

"Then I suggest we divide our forces and do as Scott says—concentrate on finding Johnny. Jelly says he was heading to Morro Coyo but I doubt that he did. He knows he can't go back to Mexico... the risk is too great he'd be shot on sight. My bet is that he's headed north toward Modesto... or possibly southeast to Green River, probably thinking to buy or steal a fresh horse."

Jelly was shaking his nead negatively. "He's on Bullet... even with a day's head start he ain't gonna be at either one yet. Prob'ly ain't even off the ranch yet."

"All right. Then we split up in three groups... Jelly, you and Marshal Sammons take the Bux stage road north. Val, you take the Morro Coyo road toward Green River, just in case. Scott, you're with me... we'll take the Spanish Wells route."

"I can ride as well as any of you! Teresa cried. "... just give me a few minutes to change clothes..."

"And ride what... a mule?" Jelly jeered. "Cuz that's all we got left here!"

"If I have to, I will."

Murdoch repressed an urge to laugh. "Teresa... _someone_ has to stay here and be in charge of headquarters..."

"But..."

"No buts... you're more valuable to us here... what if one of them shows up and needs medical attention? Gabe was pretty sure he winged Jody."

The girl was horrified. "He _shot_ him? Why? And what do you expect me to do about it if he did?"

Murdoch did permit himself a sardonic smile this time. "Gabe didn't know his identity... no one did. All he saw was a horse thief. I would've done the same. And I'm not as much a doddering old fool as you and Doctor Sam like to think I am..."

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"You think I don't know about all those afternoons you've spent in Morro Coyo in Doc's office when you're supposedly visiting a girlfriend... or that I haven't noticed all those medical references that seem to be breeding in the library?"

"I... I..."

"We'll take about that later..." Murdoch took out his pocket watch. "The horses've had forty-five minutes to rest up. We'll give 'em fifteen more and then they should be good to go. We only have a couple hours of light left... I suggest we return here within an hour of sundown. If we're unsuccessful, then at least we'll all get a night's rest and can start out fresh in the morning."

They all stood up to join Scott, then filed out the kitchen door and were gone.

**In the sudden silence, **Teresa sat gathering her wits, which were scampering in circles like mice in a grain barrel. Of all the bombshells her guardian could have dropped on her, this one certainly took the cake. She'd always known about Scott and John although she'd not met them until last year... and their assimilation into the family had been far from angst-free. She was at a loss to explain her own rising anger. Was it at the intrusion of a third son, at Scott because of his inexplicable but obvious vexation, at Murdoch for not immediately sharing the truth, or at this Joey (or Jody or whatever his damned name was) for lying by omission! What did he hope to accomplish by hiding his identity? And what did he want from _them?_

Maria Elena's face had got whiter and whiter—worried to death about her _Juanito_, of course. She seemed now to be on the verge of keening and throwing her apron over her head when Teresa leaned across the table and gently poked her arm.

"_Madrecita..._"

The older woman looked up in mid-snuffle, surprised... Teresa had not called her by that childhood endearment since she was very small.

"Now is not the time for sorrows... perhaps later we might have something to cry about... but for now, we must be strong for our men. We must show them that no matter what comes, we women will endure."


	48. Chapter 48

_Chapter 48: _**CARAVANS**

**Gabriel McClanahan snorted** that three blind mice could have followed the trail young Jody and his purloined palfrey had laid out. He kept Myrtice at a steady walking pace, occasionally pausing to examine a hoofprint, with Vicente Serrato and that wet-behind-the-ears Hebrew kid jogging along behind. He was mildly chagrined when the trail joined a wagon track, which would've made following the rider's path that much more difficult if it had been a heavily traveled road. The occasional blood spoor assured him they were going the right way. The two assistants squinted as hard they could whenever the old mountain man pointed to a spot in the road but they simply couldn't see whatever he was seeing and had to trust he knew where they were going.

**In the canyon down the road,** two miserable men hurled accusations and recriminations at each other as there was damn-all else they could do. Ollie's grotesquely swollen and skewed nose had finally stopped bleeding, but every now and then he had to honk another bloody plug into the grimy bandanna wadded up in the hand of his unbroken right arm. His eyes were squinched and face was striated where tear ducts had been pumping overtime to flush grit from mucous membranes.

Opposite him, Stan sat with his back against a boulder, sullenly massaging the dislocated thumb on his right hand that he'd had to yank back into alignment by himself on account of his _good friend_ Ollie had gagged at the idea and wouldn't do it. His face was an oozing mass of scrapes. A knot the size of a duck egg adorned his crown, a couple strips of scalp had been torn off and three of his front teeth knocked out. Against Ollie's advice he'd removed his boot and the injured ankle had promptly bloated to twice its normal size and turned purple. He couldn't even get his sock back on, much less the boot. The first thing Stan had heard as he regained consciousness was Ollie's sarcastic, "Well, here's another fine mess you've got us into." That was before Ollie's nose had inflated to where he could no longer breathe through it.

They were in a pickle. No doubt about that. Miles from civilization, without food, without water. One of them couldn't walk. The other could barely see. All their kit had been on the backs of those damned horses. They had no resources except their pistols and gunbelts. They were up the proverbial creek without a barn shovel.

And then Ollie heard something... or thought he did... and frantically signalled for silence.

"Whah?" Stan grumped. "Noo specken someun?"

"Shuddup!" Ollie whispered. "Horzzes cubbing."

"Wah? Ah doan unnerstan wad noor sane..."

"Shusgh... horzzes cubbing dowd road you morod!"

Ollie got clumsily to his feet and pulled the gun from his holster, shaking it vigorously to remove dirt and grit. He'd fashioned a sling for his broken arm from his own bandanna and Stan's (not without an argument). His left hand shook, but held steady enough to hold the weapon so he could roll the barrel with his other hand. Okay, so it wasn't rolling all that smoothly and would probably jam if he tried to shoot twice. Hopefully he wouldn't have to shoot at all... just look menacing.

Carefully easing out toward the road, keeping hidden behind a scrim of bushes, Ollie observed three men riding by... an old white-bearded guy, a tall gaunt Mexican man with a fine flourishing mustache, and an overfed white boy with dark curly hair spilling out from under his hat. They were all armed. He experienced a moment of panic when the old gent gestured the other two to a halt, then climbed off his horse and shuffled around the road for a bit before remounting and moving off. Ollie let them pass unmolested.

Thirty minutes later Ollie's ears pricked up again and once more he checked his weapon.

"Now whath?"

"Waggod cubbing."

Stan snickered with derision. "Whath oo thig ooth dooen?"

"Gudda hode up dad wagod iz wad. You stay id trees ad cubber be."

Ollie resolutely jammed his now misshapen hat down over his eyes. With pistol in hand he prepared himself to boldly step forth and commandeer that oncoming vehicle, no matter what it was or who was driving.

**Shortly after the search and recovery teams** had departed Condor, Cat and Paul had decided there was nothing further to be gained by their hanging around the camp. However, as the horses they'd arrived on were deemed insufficiently recharged to go back under saddle, the camp boss, Cheech Madeiros, made other arrangements. A supply wagon had rolled in from Hawk Camp and disgorged the remainder of its load. After ascertaining (with some skepticism) that both Brother Paul and his sidekick, Sister Mary, were capable of handling a team, he agreed to let them take the supply wagon back to the _hacienda_. Barranca, Major and Toby were to be left behind with the remuda.

Paul, Cat and Murdoch's gear was transferred from the pack mule to the wagon. Jimmy Hanson considerately fetched all of _Sombra_ Joey's kit as well. A pouting Chucho was squeezed in between the Brother and the Sister and off they went. Chucho's peevishness was slightly alleviated by Cochie's grave pronouncement that they were relying on him for navigation—an honorable responsibility for a thirteen-year-old!

Cat was driving, not in the mood for any kind of idle conversation. From time to time Paul would glance at her face in profile, taking in the grim, set lines of her mouth and brooding eyebrows. Any other woman would have been faltering by now, but not this one. He knew quite a lot about her from his wife, Marcia—Cat's former sorority sister. Knew that she had the tenacity of a terrier and a reputation for getting not mad, but even.

The thought _had_ crossed Paul's mind that—if and when Eduardo Montero was still of this world by the time this mess got resolved—his days might yet be numbered. Cat would never, ever, forgive him for the last six months—especially if Jody accrued permanent injury, didn't survive or ended up incarcerated. It had also previously occurred to Paul—although he hadn't delved that far into it—that possibly no one had thought to verify _her_ whereabouts on the night Montero was attacked.

As they turned onto the wagon track described as Yakut Trace, Paul noticed that the surrounding terrain had gradually given way from grassland and forest to arid rocky fingers poking down from the barren ridge to the west. The track twisted and turned between these outcroppings. Chucho happily informed them, in all seriousness, that they were about to enter a region known to be infested with ghostly legions of the murdered and massacred.

And that's when a bloodied, wild-eyed and filthy spectre clothed in rags staggered out into the road before them, one arm in a makeshift sling and the other brandishing a gun.

**"****Stob or ah'll shood!"**

Cat hauled up on the reins. "Excuse me?"

Paul and Chucho stared in stupefaction. All their lives they'd heard lurid tales of the cannibalistic reanimated corpses known as _zombies_—but this was the first time they'd ever encountered one.

"Ah sed stob or ah'll shood!"

"Oh dear. Oh my. Oh my goodness!" Cat looked the unlikely highwayman up and down, pretending to be flustered.

"Please sir, do not shoot us! We have nothing of value. I'm simply driving this _poor blind_ padre and this _poor retarded_ boy to the county orphanage." _And please let them be quick witted enough to catch on!_

"Ah... uh... we deed djure waggod."

Listing slightly to starboard, the fellow grimaced and motioned with the weapon for them to debark.

"Geddowd, alla ya."

Paul stared straight ahead, making clumsy pawing motions in Cat's general direction as if he couldn't see her.

"What is it, Sister Mary? What's happening?"

Chucho slumped between them, grinning idiotically with a string of drool depending from the corner of his mouth.

"Father, there is a gentleman in the middle of the road. I believe he means to rob us."

'Father' Paul clasped his hands and leaned forward, elbow on knees, still looking into nothingness.

"Oh surely not! May we be of some _other_ assistance to you, my son?" he inquired pleasantly. "You're quite welcome to ride along with us to the next village."

The man's face softened from menacing to thoughtful. The gun lowered by several inches. And then a second individual appeared from the shadows of the trees, this one hopping on one foot, bracing himself with a broken-off branch and also holding a gun.

"Do wath he theth ad doe one geths hurth!" Gunman Number Two lisped with authority.

Paul changed his tune but maintained his unruffled mien.

"Best do as the man says, Sister. He sounds quite determined."

Paul made a show of patting around to get his bearings and climbing down clumsily enough to lend veracity to his supposedly sightless status. Chucho followed. When Cat was down she took their hands and led them off to the side as Hop-Along and One-Arm tried to figure out how they were actually going to get onboard.

Cat had to bite her tongue to contain her mirth as a comedy of disabilities unfurled. Utility wagons were not designed for ease of ingress or egress, with a handy mounting step such as a buggy would have. No. A prospective transportee of necessity had to place one foot on a wheel spoke and lay one or both hands on some element of the seat or sideboard in order to haul himself or herself upwards to the driver's box... problematic for an unaccompanied female trying to manage long skirts in the process, not so much for an accompanied lady who simply waited to be grasped at the waist and handed up. A short... or blind... person... would have difficulties.

At this juncture, the two newly baptized road agents found themselves temporarily stymied by mobility and dexterity issues: Ollie had two good legs but only one working arm, and that one was encumbered by a pistol. Stan had only one leg to work with. And while he did have two good arms, the thumb on his right hand was swollen and useless so he had to hold _his_ gun left-handed. It took them a good five minutes to work out a strategy.

While Stan held guard over their captives, Ollie let down the rear gate... not an easy task for a one-armed man. Then Ollie held his gun on them while Stan went around to the back and scootched his hind end up onto the wagon bed. He had to butt-crawl over a mountain of gear to reach a position where he could cover the detainees while his partner clambered up to the driver's box.

A number of worrisome thoughts crossed Ollie's mind just then... He wasn't sure he could manage two horses with just one hand. He wasn't sure he could even find their way back to Morro Coyo. On the other hand, Oliver Hardison was very, very sure that God would not kindly look down upon a former altar boy responsible for abandoning a nun, a blind priest, and an innocent orphan in the middle of nowhere where they might be eaten by a lion, a tiger or a bear.

A brief argument ensued between the neo-outlaws, at the conclusion of which the nun, the blind priest and the innocent orphan were ordered to climb back aboard their own conveyance as navigational insurance and bargaining chips in the event of interception by any individuals of the law enforcement persuasion.


	49. Chapter 49

_Chapter 49: _**BAD TO WORSE**

**Somewhat earlier **and further up the Trace, Aaron Goldman, tracker-in-training, was sticking like a deertick to master tracker Gabriel McClanahan in raw admiration of the mountain man's ability to read sign as casually as he, Ronnie, read the _Visalia Ek Velt_. He pointed out where a one-horse two-wheeled cart had come in off a pig trail to join the main road and, a little beyond that, where two riders had emerged from the brush. Then they'd followed the combined and overlaid tracks of Charlemagne, the cart, and the two horses.

Still farther on Gabe had been puzzled by a disturbance in the pattern of prints and had hopped down to investigate... for some reason the horsemen had gone off into a side canyon and the horses had returned to the road... unridden. Another day he would have been intrigued enough to check out the canyon to see what had become of the riders... but today he was on a mission and time was growing short.

Right around the next bend they came upon an even more perplexing scene—a recently expired black horse in the middle of the thoroughfare. This time Gabe motioned for them to dismount as well and join him on a hunt for clues. Vicente and Ronnie followed their team leader as he strolled here and there, inbetween expectorations of baccy juice pointing out evidence apparently salient to their mission.

The deceased and shoeless nag wore ancient tack and a Lancer brand. Vicente identified it as one the ranch's retirees, scratching his head as he questioned what it could possibly have been doing out here so far from its home pasture. Gabe noted that within the last hour or so, three other horses (none deceased) and a smaller animal that could be a pony but was probably a small mule or large donkey (hitched to the cart) had been present.

Gabe elucidated on the forensics of equine manure. This widely puddled (now dried) batter-like splatter had been literally scared out of a rapidly-moving horse whose diet was blessed with a high grain-to-hay ratio. These other meadow muffins had been dispersed by horses who'd lately consumed only grass or poor quality hay. And this neat little heap of trinkets had been deposited by the donkey or mule pulling the cart. It was fed mainly on corn.

Over there was where two bodies had been dragged to the side of the road. They must have been still alive when found, otherwise whoever moved them wouldn't have bothered to put them under the shade. Judging from the amount and location of dried blood, one had sustained a lower body perforation and the other an upper-body leak. And from the distinctively sour odor of vomitus liberally saturating the ground nearby, someone had supplied those two with substantial draughts of _pulque_. (Plus Gabe immediately located the not-so-well-hidden stash of _mezcal_ and a number of empties that had held _pulque_.)

Gabriel had other observations to make concerning the age, gender, footwear choices, etc. of two other people who'd been present and who (judging by the drag marks) had loaded the two inebriates on their cart. Also, the horse they'd been tracking was now lame and being led on foot, with the two other horses following the cart.

The party remounted and trotted through the cleft in the rocks, Vicente Serrato's right hand clutching his St. Benedict's medal during the entire transit. (If you're an evil spirit, you don't mess with St. Benedict.) By now Gabriel McClanahan had a pretty good handle on where and how soon they were going to acquire their target. He predicted they'd be reporting in to the _hacienda_ long about dark, mission accomplished.

**Meanwhile, way down the road...** The lowering sun was casting long horizontal shadows as Murdoch and Scott parted company with Val where Lancer's private drive ended at the junction with Yokut Trace. The sheriff turned south toward Morro Coyo. Father and son headed north toward Spanish Wells, each claiming a side of the road and keeping eyes peeled for tracks leading off. Scott was the first to spot where a horse had been led away from the road into a ravine. He called to Murdoch... the first time he'd deigned to speak since leaving the hacienda. Together they explored the recesses of the ravine, examining the evidence... hoofprints and bootprints around the perimeter of a pond, recently cropped grass and newly dropped manure. Murdoch found a balled-up wax paper wrapper that had skittered under a bush—odd because Johnny was usually so meticulous about cleaning up after himself on the trail. Scott grumpily acknowledged that they'd most likely picked up the right sign.

**Thirty minutes and three miles further,** they were coming up on the portion of the road dubbed _"La Serpentina"_ and Murdoch was on the verge of calling a halt and turning back. He'd noticed on the ride from camp that Scott wasn't sitting his saddle with his usual grace and flair. He'd been fidgeting and squirming at the luncheon table as if his drawers were infested with fleas. Now he was openly shifting from one haunch to the other. The concerned parent in Murdoch wanted to know what the problem was, but the manly men's code advised him against calling attention to what certainly must be an embarrassingly personal affliction. Nevertheless, they were about to lose the light and that was a good enough reason for calling it off.

Before Scott could frame an objection to quittig, they spied the southbound entourage and pushed their mounts to a lope. The dust-enshrouded vision resolved into a mule cart, an old man on foot leading a familiar red horse, and two untethered saddle horses following meekly behind. As they met and pulled to a stop, Scott gingerly extricated himself from the saddle and limped over to Charlie, who nickered greetings to his master.

Dismounting somewhat stiffly, Murdoch approached Señorita Espinoza on the driver's seat, pretending not to notice the astonishing reek of horse shit and a sweet-sour slightly acidic stench he couldn't readily identify and didn't particularly want to. It was only after he'd exchanged greetings with the elderly woman that he craned his head over the sideboard of the cart to peer at its contents...

Margarita Guadalupe had cut loose with a cackling commentary in rapid Spanish... how she and Juan Sebastián had been minding their own business, driving to the market in Morro Coyo to celebrate their sixtieth anniversary... they had come across these two lying in the road... it would seem they had shot each other and one had dispatched the other's horse... she and Juan Sebastián were anxious to get their _pulque_ to town while it was still fresh, but decided instead to take the _patrón's_ two injured sons to their home...

Murdoch let the litany flow over and around him as he regarded his boys with wariness and relief, all too aware of how he'd gone wrong that first day, when John and Scott had walked into the greatroom to meet him... how stern and forbidding and unwelcoming he'd been. He'd almost lost them that same day... because he couldn't set aside his pride long enough to act as a parent should toward long-estranged children who've finally come home. Couldn't remember _how_ to act as a father. He wasn't going to let that happen again...

In the dusk—and because they were both covered in filth, Murdoch couldn't immediately tell which boy was which... and then he found himself looking into a pair of incredibly green eyes. He said the first thing that came into his head...

"Hello, son. We've been looking for you."

The eyes blinked once and then, in a voice so faint Murdoch couldn't be sure he'd heard correctly, "Hello... pa."

Before Murdoch could respond, Scott scrambled up into the back of the cart and was on his knees, pummeling Jody mercilessly.

**"****YOU BASTARD! **_First you steal my horse and then you kill my brother!"_

In his rage, Scott inadvertently kicked Johnny in the knee of his wounded leg. Johnny howled and sat up abruptly, knocking foreheads with Scott and flailing about, trying to pull his gun from its holster. It wasn't there—Margarita Guadalupe had removed it. Barely conscious and not quite lucid, he didn't seem to recognize either Scott or the body Scott was battering with both fists. Johnny grabbed one of the terra cotta jugs by the neck, intending to conk the nearest head. His grip was weak and the jug flew out of his hand, nailing Murdoch in the chest and shattering.

Margarita Guadalupe was standing up in the front of the cart, screaming and tottering. Murdoch was torn between running around to the back of the cart and attempting to break up the fight or staying where he was to catch the old lady if she fell, which she seemed about to do.

Murdoch shouted at them to stop but they couldn't hear him over their own yelling. One out-of-control and two disabled and slightly soused brothers were industriously hammering the pulp out of one another—to the limit of their handicapped abilities.

Scott, Murdoch realized belatedly, was still wearing _his_ gun... which somehow ended up in Jody's hand. The father stood frozen in place, in the certain knowledge one or more of his sons was about to be shot at close range...

The gun went off. Margarita Guadalupe screeched. Four untethered saddle horses bolted in alarm. Charlemagne reared and took off after them, surprisingly spritely for a three-legged horse dragging an elderly _peon_ who was stubbornly affixed to his reins. Flore wasn't about to be left behind and made a determined lurch forward, toppling Margarita Guadalupe and her voluminous skirts and petticoat onto the three combatants in the back of the cart. With that tiny but encouraging momentum, Flore put her all into it and the cart rolled forward... over Murdoch's foot. The knot of people in the rear, along with a goodly number of _pulque_ jars, spilled out onto the road amid moans, groans, squalls and a solitary shriek of pain.

With her burden so lightened at that point, Flore trotted away briskly, heehawing 'Wait for me!'

For the second time that day, Murdoch lay flat on his back in the dirt—soaked in _pulque_ and speechless. The sun was just setting.


	50. Chapter 50

_Chapter 50: _**SEARCH AND RESCUE**

**Maria Elena was again feverishly bouncing around** in the kitchen, grumbling under her breath that no one had thought to mention how many people she should count on for supper. Even Teresa had exclaimed, 'Oh... just use your best judgment'. In Maria Elena's mind that meant best allow for ALL these men returning in the evening, but not all at the same time... _Madre Dios!_ Therefore, a serve-yourself buffet was in order. She rounded up her three helpers and put them to work. Inés was pulling bowl after crock from the capacious icebox, noting that another block needed to be brought in from the ice house. Thankfully there were plenty of leftovers and cold cuts to construct an acceptable buffet, with fresh fruits and pastries in the pie safe to make up the difference. And there was always the daily-baked bread. Ivelisse and Nereida were put to peeling and slicing, chopping and dicing.

Teresa had helped clean up the kitchen after lunch, then announced she was going upstairs for a lie-down—if not for a nap at least for a good long think. Toeing off her shoes, she lay down fully dressed on the bed with a cool damp cloth across her forehead and eyes, hoping to stave off an incipient headache. Through the open window she heard the arrival of the supply wagon that had been sent to Morro Coyo that morning. Ordinarily she'd be down there cataloging the purchases against the list given to the drivers... but just this once, Maria Elena could do it.

As she was drifting off Teresa fancied she heard hoofbeats of multiple horses passing by the house and heading toward the barn, but no accompanying human chatter. Must be her imagination... none of the searchers would have returned this soon. Five minutes later there came a timid knocking at her door...

"Señorita Teresa? You awake?" The voice was Maria Elena's grandson's.

"Yes, Chico... what is it?"

"_Abuela_ say you come down now, please... she need you."

Teresa sighed and sat up, fumbling for her shoes.

"Tell her I'll be right there..."

A short visit to the lavatory and a cursory face wash. A brief glance in the mirror. Teresa wished she hadn't looked. She wondered if she had time to comb her hair. Probably not. Descending to the kitchen, she found Maria Elena pacing the floor and wringing her hands.

"What's the problem _now?_" Teresa asked with weary resignation.

"You come. I show..." The little woman trotted out the hallway and through the door to the portico, around the corner and sped to the saddlehorse barn.

**Clustered at the barn door** were five saddled, riderless horses—the two Murdoch and Scott had ridden out, two with foreign brands that Teresa didn't recognize... and Charlemagne. Standing by with their puzzled brown faces turned her way were the teenagers on barn and stable duty that day and the two drivers who'd just come in from Morro Coyo, Miguel Vega and Felipe Reyes.

_"__¿Dónde están los jinetes?"_ Teresa demanded of the oldest of the stablehands, Agosto Dominguez.

"Horses come by theirself, miss... no riders."

" _'__Themselves'_, Auggie... not _'theirself'_," his teacher corrected.

"Yes, miss. What you want we do with them?"

Teresa stared back... it suddenly dawning on her that she—Miss Teresa O'Brian—was at the moment the highest ranking member of the family on the premises... and in charge. Expected to provide explanations. Make decisions. Give orders. Dispense instructions. She'd often wondered about the meaning of the phrase... "don't know whether to shit or go blind." Well, now she knew.

Something that had been pounded into her relentlessly by Doctor Sam over the past year came to the forefront: "In an emergency, you can't afford to dither. _Any_ action... even if you're unsure, even if it's not by the book... is preferable to none at all. Rely on instinct."

Teresa checked the railroad watch she kept in a skirt pocket and did some quick math. Murdoch, Scott and Val had been gone a little over an hour. They'd followed the two-mile private drive out to the main north-south corridor—the Yokut Trace—where Murdoch and Scott were to cut north. They could be anywhere from four to six road miles away by now, depending on how fast they were moving. So whatever had happened, had happened close enough to home so that they might still be found before full dark.

While the temporary head of household and ranch ops was calculating, a driverless cart came careering around the side of the house, pulled by a medium-sized brown mule at full gallop. The mule caught sight of the horses and put on the brakes, but the weight of the cart kept pushing her forward, leaving four deep scallops in the dirt. The onlookers scuttled out of the way as the cart came to a full stop inches before braining the luckless mule against the solid barn door.

The crowd pushed forward. The cart was empty, aside from a few shards of pottery, a bundle that had been fastened under the driver seat, some wisps of straw and a great deal of semi-congealed blood.

Teresa immediately recognized the cart and mule as belonging to the Espinozas. It was the blood that spurred her into command mode, first addressing the two drivers.

What was the condition of their team? Excellent, Miguel swore—they'd come home at a relaxed pace with barely a hair turned. He and Felipe were directed to pull the supply wagon around to the back and unload everything under the kitchen portico—the three servant girls would ferry the purchases indoors. Water and grain the horses as necessary and standby to reload the wagon.

Agosto was detailed to attend Charlemagne and see to his injuries. One of the other teens could take care of the four other horses plus the miserable mule which could barely stand up at this point.

Teresa and Maria Elena returned to the house where Teresa first checked her medical bag (a hand-me-down from Doc Sam that she kept concealed in the food pantry). While she ran upstairs to change into shirt, trousers and boots, Maria Elena and Inés collected blankets, quilts and towels to go into the wagon. Ivelisse retrieved four carriage lanterns from the storeroom and made sure they were filled and had new wicks. Nereida filled goatskins with hot water and canteens with cold drinking water. A straw-lined wicker hamper carried bottles—whiskey, carbolic solution, laudanum, alcohol, chloroform—whatever Teresa thought might come in handy. Two pillowcases were stuffed with bandages. At the last minute Maria Elena remembered the collapsible canvas litter in a cellar storage area and send Inés to get it because she was the only one not afraid of spiders.

In the meantime, Miguel and Felipe had taken care of the horses, unloaded the wagon, and wheelbarrowed several loads of clean straw to spread in the bed. The last rays of the sun winked out behind the mountains as the makeshift ambulance moved out... Felipe driving, Teresa next to him and Miguel in the wagon bed. The men were a bit nervous about traveling in the twilight but Teresa promised that if they hadn't found anything by the time they reach the Fatman's Squeeze, they would turn around and come back. Yes... it would be full dark... but that's why they had lanterns. And she made sure they were armed because... you never knew!

**Full dark.** Murdoch paced the road—back and forth, back and forth—alternately muttering profanities in an undertone and shaking his head at the sheer insanity of the situation. Inbetween, he thanked a deity in whom he'd long ceased to believe that poor Mrs. Espinoza hadn't been severely injured in her fall from the driver's seat to the cart bed and thence to ground, having happily landed on a cushion of Lancer sons... and for the fact that all three of the sons were still alive—for the present. In addition, he appealed to that same deity to send rescue before the night grew too chill and the bloodloss too great to overcome.

Juan Sebastián had sustained a fair amount of road rash while being dragged a hundred yards before it occurred to him he'd best let go of that horse. He lay in the dust, stunned, until the _patrón_ had come to help him stand up. Clutching the _patron's_ arm with one hand and the pitiful remains of his tattered trousers with the other, he toddled back to join his slightly addled wife, whom the _patrón_ had already parked on a flat boulder at the side of the road. Man and wife huddled together for warmth, furiously clicking their rosary beads, her _rebozo_ spread over both their shoulders.

Several paces away on a grassy hummock lay the three battered young Lancers, dragged far enough apart by their irate father that they couldn't get at each other.

First in line was the instigator, Scott, who'd entered the fray more or less undamaged except for what had been inflicted at camp. When they'd fallen off the cart, Scott had landed awkwardly on his right shoulder, which now didn't want to work. He knew it was dislocated. He had a black eye and a bloody nose—also, Johnny had vomited on him as they rolled off the cart. Breathing through his mouth to avoid gagging, he leaned forward against drawn up knees with his eyes closed, right arm clamped to his torso, sunk in misery. Awake, but afraid to move and refusing to speak—knowing this was going to be blamed on him... and rightly so, he had to admit.

Johnny lay on his back in the middle. His leg wound had bled copiously after all that rough and tumble and more of Margarita Guadalupe's undergarment had been sacrificed to staunch it. His heartbeat was too faint and too rapid for Murdoch's liking but he remained conscious most of the time, only occasionally drifting off. Whenever his father passed by and inquired as to how he was doing, he managed a sickly grin and said 'grand!'

Jody lay on his left side with his back to the others, cradling his numb right arm against his chest and trying to ignore the aching hip, which hurt no matter which side he lay on. Murdoch found the bullet hole in this son's shoulder, although it'd stopped bleeding some time ago. His earlier tiny flash of humor had retreated and he was even less inclined to answer when Murdoch tried to ascertain his status.

Murdoch himself wanted so very badly to be able to kneel beside each son, to smooth hair away from a strained face... to have some tactile assurance that they were still there with him. But his bad leg screamed in silent protest and he was having to use a broken off branch as a walking stick as he paced. He was afraid if he got down he wouldn't be able to get up again. He had to keep moving.

To occupy his time and keep the leg from locking up, he started picking up unbroken jugs of _pulque_ that had rolled off the cart, one after another, and now lay at intervals in the road. All of them were thirsty and they had no water. He offered the first jug to the Espinozas... they drained it immediately. The next jug he took to Scott, who tasted it and spit it out, then to Johnny, who chugged it. Anything that would alleviate pain was fine by him. Jody took a swallow and yakked it right back up. Murdoch had worked up a raging thirst himself. He'd had _pulque_ before and didn't like it... but it was wet and it was there and he needed the hydration. They all did. He persuaded himself that if he held his nose while it went down, he could pretend it was beer. No one turned his nose up at the next round and Jody managed to hold his down.

**A lightening of the sky** behind the black silhouette of the Sierra Nevadas signaled the rising of the full moon. Murdoch fumbled his watch out of its vest pocket and flipped it open. Still too dark to see the time. Remembering he had matches in that same pocket, he extracted one and struck against the makeshift walking stick. Only an hour had transpired since they'd been ignominously stranded. Seemed like half the night. He wondered how much longer he could remain upright before his leg gave out. There wasn't so much as a sturdy bush nearby against which he could lean. A light breeze stirred the grasses in the meadows on both sides of the road, producing a gentle rustling that vied with the chirps of nocturnal insects.

Although Murdoch had taken only a few restrained nips (or so he'd thought) of _pulque_, he was starting to feel queasy, warmish and a tad light-headed. So when he thought he heard a faint jingling of harness brasses in the distance, he was inclined to attribute that to impaired auditory function and mere wishful thinking. At the same time he thought he could hear muffled hoofbeats coming at him from the other direction. He vowed that in future he'd stick to scotch... that didn't cause hallucinations. The noises didn't cease, no matter how much he shook his head.

Presently four pinpricks of light appeared to the south, along with the unmistakable clomping of many hooves from both directions. When the lights resolved themselves into carriage lamps—swaying from shepherds' hooks on a wagon and shedding a golden glow—the _patrón_ all but wept in relief. The other new arrivals—a weary trio indeed—slipped from their mounts simultaneously with Teresa, Miguel and Felipe jumping off the wagon.

Teresa ran to Murdoch and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. "Thank God you're all right... I was so worried!"

"And you don't know how glad I am to see you... all of you!"

Teresa pulled her head up and looked around. "But... where's Scott? And... oh!" She'd spotted the three dark forms on the ground... two of them horizontal.

"Oh no! Are they...?"

"Hurt but alive... they'll be fine once we get them to the house... good thing you thought to bring the wagon."

Juan Sebastián and Margarita Guadalupe, who'd fallen asleep propped against each other, woke up. Vicente went straight to the old couple—they were related in some way.

"Good Lord! Is that the Espinozas?" Teresa exclaimed. "Their cart and mule showed up at the house right after the horses..."

"The horses...?"

"Five horses, including Charlemagne and two that aren't ours, came in without riders... and a few minutes later this mule came charging up with a cart and no driver... that's how we knew you were in trouble! How did that happen?"

Murdoch sighed. "Just something else I'll have to explain later... I don't suppose you brought your medical bag... the one you keep hidden in the pantry...?"

Teresa's blush was quite visible in the light from the carriage lamp. "I... you... yes... of course I did... that's what Doc Sam's been training me to do all this time..."

"Well then, Doctor Teresa... get it and let's see to your brothers... you'll find quite an interesting variety of injuries... but first I'd like you to take a look at the old people..."

Murdoch was endeavoring to keep his tone light, not at all sure how well his ward would deal with blood and gore in the field as opposed to a clinical environment. Once again, she surprised him, letting go of his vest and calling to Felipe to bring her the medical bag and one of the sacks of bandages. Pointing to the other two men standing off to the side, she crooked a finger at the tall young one—Ron. "You... would you come and hold one of these lamps for me?"

Ronnie stepped forward obediently, but agog. (He'd seen the young lady of the house many times in his father's apothecary shop but had never spoken with her directly, so he knew who she was... but that was from a distance... and he was overcome with shyness.) "Um... uh... yes, m'am."


	51. Chapter 51

_Chapter 51: _**ADVENTURES OF A PRAIRIE PARAMEDIC**

**Other than ruffled dignity** and a few small bruises, Margarita Guadalupe Espinoza was unhurt as far as Teresa could determine. Juan Sebastián Espinoza, however, displayed road rash from chin to toes. Teresa sponged elbows and forearms, knees and shins before applying salve. The old man became agitated as she attempted to examine other areas that had made contact with the road. His shredded pants were barely covering the essentials and she understood his embarrassment, turning over to his wife treatment of scrapes in more intimate areas. Ronnie stood by with the lantern.

Murdoch had quietly requested that Felipe take Vicente's horse and ride to Morro Coyo with all haste to bring Doctor Jenkins to the _hacienda_... but with a stern admonition to _not_ run the animal into the ground in the process. Miguel was detailed to ride Ron's horse back to the _hacienda_ with a heads-up and instructions to those who waited there... the kitchen to be converted to a surgical suite, the downstairs bath readied with ample hot water, and the communal bathhouse likewise prepared for occupancy. Then he took down a second carriage lamp and went to stand beside Teresa, joined by Gabe McClanahan.

Surveying the other three victims, the girl pursed her mouth and blew out her cheeks. "I'd ask how this happened but we don't have time. Which one's the worst off?"

Murdoch turned so that his back was to his sons, lowering his voice. "For reasons I can't explain just now... would you see to Scott first?" He hoped to hell he was making the right decision here—and that his youngest... his _middle_ son... wasn't yet at some critical stage. Or the other one.

Teresa gave him an impenetrable look. "All right. But it'd better be a _good_ reason."

**Kneeling next to Scott, **she touched his cheek gently to get his attention. "Poor old Scottie... what've you done to yourself this time?"

He lifted his head and grimaced as he tried to shift position. "I've got a laundry list of complaints, little sister... but the worst one seems to be my shoulder... can't move it."

"Let me see..." She undid the top few buttons of his shirt and slid her hand in sideways, cupping her palm over the right shoulder and tracing the outline of a misaligned joint.

"Have you ever had a dislocated shoulder before?"

"Yes... once, in the war."

"Then you know what we've got to do..." It was an apologetic statement, not a question.

"Do it and get it over with..."

Teresa summoned Miguel and Vicente, explaining what to do and how. There was a clearly audible click as the ball of the humerus was restored to the glenoid cavity. Scott yelped and passed out. The temporary orderlies gently laid him down.

A few minutes later Scott came around, urging her to see to his brother (meaning Johnny—he wasn't ready to admit kinship to the other one). And then he tried to sit up using his right arm... and gasped. There were no more complaints as she bound his arm to his chest to keep the shoulder immobilized, and he graciously accepted help standing up and being boosted into the wagon after he'd walked over to it under his own steam.

Teresa's sharp eye detected the delicate way he adjusted his _derrière_ on the wagon floor and called him on it. He gritted his teeth and refused to discuss it. Period. (An offense to one's manly parts and an intimate encounter with a branding iron were _not_ ailments one brought up with one's sister! The ride back to the _hacienda_ from the camp had been agonizing.) Shrugging, Teresa offered him a folded wad of linen soaked with warm water. He applied himself to ridding his nasal passages of clotted blood, hoping his nose wasn't broken

**Hunkering down next to Johnny,** Teresa had to bite back a chuckle at the layers of petticoat ruffles wound around and around his thigh. (Poor Mrs. Espinoza must be feeling quite a draft!) In the lamplight it was difficult to tell whether Johnny's face was unnaturally pale, but in any event it was drawn and he wasn't responding readily. His eyes, when he finally opened them at her touch, seemed cloudy and soft-focused.

Murdoch hovered anxiously. "John? Son... can you hear me?"

Johnny mumbled something that might have been intended to be a 'yes' but came out rhyming with 'duck.'

Teresa asked Murdoch—nicely, of course—to get out of her light. "Johnny, are you hurt anywhere besides your leg?"

"Head... headache... something hit me..."

Teresa fingered his noggin, encountering a small bump on the back but no blood. She instructed Ronnie and Gabe to hold the lantern closer while she scissored off the soggy bandage and the rest of the pants leg obscuring the wound. Rivulets of blood had trickled down his leg and into his boot. Teresa feared overall blood loss might be greater than anyone realized but kept that opinion to herself as she sponged the surrounding area with carbolic solution before placing a thicker compress and securing it with a tighter bandage.

Murdoch took over lantern duty while Ron brought the litter from the wagon and assembled it with Gabe's help.

"It'll take all four of us to lift him up into the wagon... try to keep him steady and don't jostle him... fold some quilts and prop his leg up as far as you can. When we start back one of us needs to sit with him and keep pressure on the wound."

Naturally, Johnny put up a token resistance to being picked up and placed on the litter. In the end he capitulated by the simple expediency of passing out long enough to be installed on a mat of straw and securely blanketed. Just as well, Teresa thought... saved her from the inevitable argument about not wanting any painkillers. She asked Vicente to stay with him and keep him calm when he woke up.

**With Ronnie, Gabe and Murdoch** each holding a lantern aloft, Teresa went to the third and last victim. Jody was awake now and sitting up on his own but in visible distress with his right arm folded to his chest.

"You again!" Teresa exclaimed, kneeling down... but with a smile to let him know she wasn't being derogatory.

"Yeah, 'fraid so."

"What's wrong with your arm? Can you move it?"

"Don't know. Mostly numb."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"Not really. Guess I ran into something."

_More like something ran into you._ "Mind if I have a look?" Once again Teresa had to undo buttons in order to ease the garment away from neck and shoulder—with Jody obligingly tilting his head forward. The entire back of his shirt was sticky with congealed blood. Thanks to Murdoch's information she already knew what she was looking for and found it... the puckered red roundel of a bullet wound within a half-inch collar of purple bruising—and the area surrounding _that_ slightly swollen and warm to the touch. Was it truly possible he was unaware he'd been shot? It appeared so. She didn't see any need to mention it... or the fact that there was a bullet in there that required extraction. And as the wound wasn't actively bleeding, there wasn't much use in bandaging it. On the other hand, a few miles on the wagon might cause it to open it up again.

The shirt itself was rent with tears and stuck to the skin in many places with dried blood from the scratches and gouges... as if he'd been dragged through thorny brush. That, too, tallied with Murdoch's description of what had happened. Pulling it off would take the nascent scabs with it... and then _those_ would bleed freely. It was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if you-don't situation which she solved by folding a thick compress over the bullet wound and binding it in place _over_ the shirt... which would have to be soaked off.

She didn't ask Jody about the hip injury, although helping him to stand she couldn't help but notice his limp was much more pronounced than it had been that night in the foaling shed. He didn't complain or try to shrug off Ron and Gabe, as Johnny would have, when they assisted him to the wagon and helped get him onboard.

**Murdoch murmured that it might be prudent** to place this patient forward, against the bulkhead and out of Scott's reach. No one asked why. Didn't have to. The blonde one emitted a low growl reminiscent of a dog defending its dinner bowl. Teresa was consumed with curiosity as to why Scott had so taken against this new addition to the family, forgetting that not a few hours before she herself had harbored the same attitude. Obviously something else had occurred to keep his antipathy stoked. But now wasn't the time to press Murdoch for details.

Murdoch's own sour hip was giving him such aggravation he had to submit to being ingloriously shoved up to the bench seat of the wagon. Lastly, the Espinozas were loaded. There was just enough floor space left for Vicente to sit with his legs dangling off the back, and for Teresa to squeeze up next to Johnny in order to keep pressure on his bandaged leg.

Gabe fastened lanterns to both ends of a shepherd's crook and carried it sideways across the pommel like a high wire artist's balancing pole, taking the lead to light the way. With Ron at the reins, the wagonful of casualties turned toward home.


	52. Chapter 52

_Chapter 52: _**TRIAGE**

**At the hacienda...** Ron had held the team to a moderate walk as best he could, but there was no dodging the bone-rattling ruts and chuckholes, especially in the dark. The drive linking the _estancia_ compound to the main road was overdue for repair and gradework, Murdoch noted ruefully.

The pungent and unhygienic conditions of Teresa's three patients had not escaped her notice. Indeed, she'd had to put a conscious effort into clamping a lid on her gag reflex while working on them. For that matter, Murdoch himself wasn't all that fragrant—at one point he'd had to turn aside and hurl over the side of the wagon—_pulque_ never had agreed with him. Some backwash was inevitable.

Doctor Jenkins was adamant about proper sanitation during any sort of medical procedure, no matter how uninvasive. Removing lead projectiles was pretty damned invasive. At least three bodies were going to require extremely thorough scrubdowns before anything could be done. And first they'd have to be separated from their clothing, some of which might be salvageable but most likely would be going to the burn pit. Teresa couldn't help but snicker (quietly, to herself) at the scenario playing out in her head. Three naked brothers. _No no no no no... do NOT think about it! Decide, instead, which poor souls are going to be assigned the unwelcome task of the Great Wash-Up._

As the wagon pulled under the rear portico, a quintet of expectant faces awaited—Maria Elena and her three minions and Miguel. The two disheveled elderlies were handed down first and whisked away by Vicente to his own home where his Rosa would look after them.

Gabe and Vicente helped Murdoch alight from the seat—not an easy endeavor... he was a big man and they nearly dropped him on the tiles. Murdoch said a bad word, having worked up a steaming case of crankiness during the uncomfortable ride. The _patrón_ had every expectation of resuming command of his domain, despite the fact that incapacitation forced him to cling to the side of the wagon for support and the lingering aftereffects of the _pulque_ had made him both nauseous, argumentative... and _loud._

What he _wasn't_ expecting was his diminutive ward getting up in his face and yelling right back...

Inés Mechoso, Nereida Dominguez and Ivelisse Guevarra huddled together in speechless wonder at the spectacle of Señorita Teresa and the _patrón_ going at it. They'd very seldom witnessed him in this state of agitation—gray hair standing on end, veins pulsing at his temples, clothing awry, pale blue eyes flashing like _fuego de San Elmo_ on the tips of a steer's horns. His resonant voice rattled the panes in the windows fronting the portico. _Madre Dios!_

"You're exhausted... and you stink like a brewery!" Teresa shouted. "Take a long hot bath... and _go to bed!"_

"I will NOT be ordered around in my own house!"

"You're not in any shape to GIVE orders right now... mentally _or_ physically!"

"I will NOT be shunted aside like a useless old man while my boys..."

"Are being cared for by others... younger, with _two_ good legs! You'll just be in the way... let us take care of things!"

"You just wait a minute, young lady...!"

Gabriel McClanahan chose that moment to intervene, stepping between them and serenely facing Murdoch.

"Now Murdo... you jes calm yerself... the l'il gal's right. Even ah can see yer leg's about ta give out. Ain't nuthin' you can kin do til them boys is warshed up proper an' ready fer that doctor feller when he gits here. How's 'bout you n' me hikin' over ta thet fancy bathhouse a yourn an' let the young folks do what needs ta be done..." Gabe's slow, easy manner seemed to have the intended calming effect on his peer.

Scott had (carefully!) scooted himself off the wagon and materialized next to his father.

"Sir... Teresa's right... there's nothing we can do here except attend to our needs and get ourselves cleaned up. You'll feel better after a good soak and maybe the girls can rustle us up something to eat when we're done..."

Maria Elena had retreated into the house and now reappeared, offering Murdoch's cane to him. He seemed to slump a little, muttering thanks. Gabe had been to the hacienda many times and knew his way around. With one arm under Murdoch's, he nodded to Maria Elena. "Miz Melendez... we're gonna be needin' some clean duds... kin you get us fixed up? Alla my gear is back at the camp... and some grub'd be real nice, too..."

Maria Elena nodded and scooted off to take care of business, taking Ivelisse and Nereida with her. She may not have cottoned to the way the old trapper smelled most of the time, but he _was_ a gentleman and she appreciated that. Also grateful that he'd been able to divert the _patrón_ and make him see reason. _Ai!_ Sometimes the boss acted like a _bébé!_

**Teresa turned her attention** to Inés. "Is the bath ready?" Inés asserted that it was, in addition contributing that the copper boiler was at full capacity, extra buckets lined up in the hall for refilling the tub as needed, and the room itself supplied with extra soap and towels. Vicente returned at that moment.

"We'll take care of Johnny first..."

Vicente blushed and looked away. "Señorita... it would not be proper..."

"I'm not proposing to do it myself!" she grinned. "I was about to say, between you and Ronnie and Miguel, you ought to be able to pick Johnny up and carry him in and... do whatever's necessary..."

He grinned back. "Sí, señorita... thees we can do!"

Vicente and Miguel clambered up into the wagonbed to take Johnny's arms. Ronnie stood at the tail, in charge of guiding his legs out first. Johnny protested he could walk on his own, attempting to pull his feet loose. Ron merely tightened his hold. The three maneuvered their load through the door into the hallway and turned left through the bathroom door. When Johnny spied the oval wooden tub full of steaming water he realized what was on and struggled all the more.

"Don't need no bath! Lemme go!"

"Believe me, Johnny... you most certainly do," Teresa contested fervently from the door frame. "And you're going to get one whether or not you appreciate it..."

The door to the bathroom closed then cracked open again. Ron stuck his head and called to Teresa, who was about to return to the portico.

"Miss O'Obrian, what you want us to do with his clothes... and what're we gonna put him in when we're done?"

Teresa nodded her head. "Throw everything out here in the hall. It needs to be got out as quickly as possible before it skunks up the whole house! I'll send a maid upstairs for a nightshirt. Once you get him in the tub, leave Vicente to keep him there and you and Miguel come back out, please."

Ron nodded and withdrew his head. The door closed again. From behind it presently erupted a great commotion of yelling, swearing and splashing. Disrobing and bathing a grown man who doesn't want to be isn't any easier than it sounds. The noise died down after a minute or so and Ron and Miguel slipped out the door, both thoroughly soaked and grateful to have been granted a respite from that wildcat.

Amazing the amount of damage an injured naked man in a blind panic could inflict on three others, two of whom were bigger than he was. Ronnie was assuring (he was reasonably sure, at least) Miguel that their next transportee was not disposed toward kicking, punching, scratching or biting... although he was known to modify other people's ears when in bad humor. Miguel showed the whites of his eyes and suggested Ronnie search the body for knives before they attempted to remove it.

Teresa directed them over to a nearby grouping of patio furniture and asked if they would please carry a chaise longue into the kitchen and place it in a corner out of the way—it would be needed for Johnny to lie on until the doctor arrived. And while they waited for the bathroom to be cleared for the next incumbent, would they unload everything but the last patient from the wagon, so that the stablehands could take it and the horses away?

Maria Elena and Ivelisse trooped by, laden with clothing for the patrón and Señors Gabriel and Scott. Pressed into service, Chico and carried a tray with a bottle of brandy and three glasses.

**Jody had been drifting** in and out of consciousness during most of the journey. During periods of awareness he marked numbness receding from his shoulder and arm, leaving in its place a sharp pain whenever the wagon had shuddered over a rock or dropped into a rut. Every rip or puncture caused by thorns and spines stung with wasp-like intensity. The knife wound on his arm throbbed as viciously as the ache in his head. It was the kind of headache that usually precipitated a blackout, which would have been a mercy at this point but stubbornly refused to happen. He was, unfortunately, still very much in this world of hurt and nausea, even though there was nothing left in his gut to bring up.

He was vaguely cognizant of his surroundings, understanding that the wagon had reached its destination—the _hacienda_. He understood that he was about to moved to another location... and that it would probably hurt worse when he was. He wondered what the holdup was. He knew he smelled rank. Meanwhile, a blur of voices swirled around him, echoing as if at a great distance and he was aware of an uproar somewhere in the background...

A swarm of teenage stablehands who should have long been abed clustered behind the wagon at a discreet remove, murmuring among themselves and eyeing the rather unimposing person lying motionless at the forward end. Word had got around through the invisible network, as it tends to do in closed communities. They knew practically everything there was to know—so far—about this fascinating individual whom they'd all last seen working horses on the days after the seasonal hires had arrived. He sure didn't look like much now... any more than he had then, when they'd all assumed he was just another unremarkable _mestizo_.

Except now he was _Sombra_ Joey... the shade or shadow who (it was reputed) mesmerized horses, wrenched the spirit of a dying horse away from _el Diablo_ and brought it back to life, bit the ears off bad people. He was a _desperado_... like Señor Johnny whose other name they weren't supposed to mention. His real name was Jor-Dan, or Jo-Dee, and he was another son of the _patrón_.

The young people scattered like cockroaches when Señorita Teresa and Señora Maria Elena came out the back door and scolded them to go home. Teresa had just done a walkaround in the kitchen to make sure all was in readiness for the doctor's arrival. There was nothing else to do but wait... wait for the doctor, wait for the bathroom to become available. She was starting to worry about Jody, who was being awfully damned quiet, and thinking she ought at least to climb up into the wagon and check his vital signs.

**At last Vicente came out** to advise that Johnny had been dried off, nightshirted, expertly shaved by himself, and temporarily rebandaged. Ron and Miguel had come back in to help move Johnny onto the chaise longue, where he now appeared to be dozing. Evidently he'd used up all his internal resources and wouldn't be giving them any more aggravation. The maids were in the bathroom, draining the tub and refilling it for the next incumbent.

Jody was cooperative about being moved, though unspeaking. At least he was able to stand, if shakily, on his own two feet and walk to bathroom with assistance. Vicente and Ron reckoned they could handle him on their own. Miguel was dismissed to remove the wagon and team so that the portico would be free for the doctor's buggy. The three maids were sent to collect items as they were handed down to them from the wagon.

Teresa realized she could do with some tidying up herself—quite a bit of nasty had rubbed off on her while in contact with Johnny and Jody out on the road. On her way upstairs to wash up and change into cleaner clothes, Teresa was surprised to encounter, descending the central staircase, a strange older gentleman who paused to offer a courtly bow. With a shock she realized it was Mr. McClanahan... but not as she'd ever seen (or smelled!) him! He had bathed, combed his curly white hair and neatly trimmed his facial ornamentation to a handsome mustache and spade beard. He was wearing a pair of Murdoch's pajamas with a robe.

Mr. McClanahan apologized for startling her—he and Murdoch and Scott had returned to the house via the front entrance after their baths and gone straight upstairs. He offered that he was on his way to the greatroom. Murdoch and Scott would be joining him shortly and Murdoch was requesting a pot of very hot, _very _strong coffee be served there. Teresa skipped back down the stairs and around the corner to put in the order, then raced back up again. At this rate she needn't worry about the extra pound or two she was afraid she might've put on lately.

**In the months** since Scott and John had come to live at the Lancer _estancia_, the kitchen had become the staging area for triage and emergency doctoring. (And whenever an emergency involved Señor Johnny, there was bound to be drama and buckets of blood.) The Lancer surgical team—consisting of an attending physician (usually Doctor Sam) plus whatever family members and staff happened to be available—had found it more convenient to attend a victim laid out at waist-height on the sturdy kitchen table rather than on a bed. And less detrimental to bed linens. Thus the table was already spread with clean old quilts. Stacks of towels, blankets and bandages were at the ready. Pots of water burbled on the stove, for sterilizing instruments.

From the cavernous ceiling hung a wagon-wheel-shaped chandelier with eight small oil lamps. The chain suspending the retractable fixture was connected to a cleat on a nearby wall to facilitate lighting or extinguishing the lamps. All eight were now lit for maximum illumination.

All was in readiness for the arrival of the doctor... except that Jody was still in the bath by the time Teresa returned to the kitchen. Annoyed, she knocked on the door and stood back as that tall curly-headed boy squeezed out to join her in the hallway.

"Everything all right in there?" Teresa had to tilt her head up. She recognized him now—that cheerful youngster at Goldman's Pharmacy in Green River, helping his daddy and momma behind the counter... just last summer. When had he got so big?! She also recalled that he was uncommonly knowledgeable about medicines and medical supplies. His mother was a highly-sought-after midwife in addition to functioning as a visiting nurse to shut-ins. She often took her son with her on rounds whenever he wasn't in school or helping his father at the store.

"Oh yes, m'am... we done got 'im warshed up but he don't wanna come out. I reckon all that hot water must feel real good... only..."

"Only what? And don't go all cowboy ignoramus on me... I know your mother! Be precise."

The guilty grin faded as the pharmacist's son closed the door firmly and looked around to be sure they weren't being overheard—it wouldn't do for word to get around that he was both intelligent and educated...

"Well, m'am... much of the minor subcutaneous damage comes from mesquite thorns. Vicente and I picked most of those out... the rest will need tweezers. A lot of the deeper punctures are still bleeding. Primary hemostasis... that's... uh..."

"I know what a clot is..."

"The... um... clot that formed in the bullet wound was loosened when he was moved, and the hot water dissolved it altogether, so it's bleeding again..."

"And the arm? What happened there?"

"Knife-fight, m'am... Cochie sewed it up the first time, had it stabilized... it looked like it was going to heal up okay, but some of the stitches must've pulled loose between here and camp. I believe once the bullet's out and his arm's fixed, he'll probably be all right."

"That's your professional opinion, is it?"

The kid looked grim. "My mother taught me to recognize signs of shock, miss. Joey's not there yet but he will be if he isn't treated soon. That other one, though..."

"I'm not a doctor, either... but as it happens, I agree with you."

"I don't think Joey realizes he's been shot. We didn't tell him."

"I see. Well, I must say... that's very astute of you. I didn't mention it either. We don't want to alarm him unnecessarily. But you need to go ahead and get him out and dried off and into some longjohn bottoms, at least. Fold up a handtowel against the bullet wound—I'll get you some linen strips to bind it in place until Doctor Sam can get to him. We'll park him in a chair in the kitchen and trust he holds out until then."

"Yes m'am..."

"And Ronnie?"

"M'am?"

"Two things... my name's Teresa. I'm not old enough to be 'm'am' to you. Number two, after you've got Jody settled, you can either take a turn in that tub or go down to the bathhouse... we're going to need all the helpful hands we can get..."

"What? Me? But..."

"You heard me... you smell as bad as the rest of them!"


	53. Chapter 53

_Chapter 53: _**THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM**

**Stout-hearted troupers all**, the three servant girls had elected to stay well past their usual shifts. All unassigned bedrooms were now prepared for occupancy. Nereida was stationed in the dining room, in charge of the buffet where chafing dishes were keeping warm dishes warm and bowls of chipped ice kept cream-based items from turning. From the butler's pantry Maria Elena had unearthed a pair of antique brass Russian samovars—they now reposed on the sideboard in the dining room, one filled with coffee and the other with tea. Inés had located a stack of small folding tables in a closet and distributed them in the greatroom. Ivelisse was keeping the stove ablaze with stick after stick of firewood brought in by Chico. Maria Elena had given up trying to send the boy to bed before he was exposed to any more new unsavory epithets echoing down the hall from the bathroom—he was entirely too keyed up and what he'd already absorbed couldn't be unheard.

**Scott and Gabe had filled their plates** from the buffet and retired to the greatroom where Murdoch was already ensconced by the fire with his bad leg propped on an ottoman. Maria Elena personally organized his tray and took it in to him, then buzzed around fussing over him until he shooed her away.

Vicente had gone home to freshen up and check on the Espinozas, finding them fed and already put to bed by his lady wife, who sent him straight back to the Big House where he could feed himself. Before Ron left for the bathhouse, he remembered he didn't have any clean clothes to change into. Not a problem, Teresa assured him and went to consult Maria Elena, who sent Chico to her house to bring back a set of her husband's peasant whites—Cipriano being the only other individual besides Murdoch who owned clothes that would fit. Upon his return, an extremely self-conscious Ronnie was sent to the buffet line and on to the greatroom.

In pre-op, Johnny still dozed fitfully on the chaise longue, bleeding staunched for the time being. He seemed to be holding his own. Likewise, Jody had been parked on a chair with arms and was slumped over the table with his head pillowed on his left arm, right arm cradled in his lap with his shoulder swathed in a towel. All Teresa and Maria Elena could do was pace fretfully and check the clock on the wall every five minutes. Where could Doctor Sam be? Already it was nine o'clock! He should have been here by now!

Inés drifted in to report that the _patrón_ and his guest, Señor Gabriel, occupying Jelly's usual spot on the other side of the fireplace, had both snoozed off. That _joven muy grande_ (Teresa could tell Inés was quite taken with the oversized galoot!) was stretched out on the sofa. Señor Scott was sitting at the _patrón's_ desk reading a newspaper. Nereida and Ivelisse were seated in the dining room, playing _conquian_ while keeping a watch on the foodstuffs... were there likely to be any more diners this evening? Probably yes, Teresa told her, adding that now would be a good time to take advantage of the lull, to feed herself and join the others in their card game until needed, tell them to eat as well if they haven't already. No... she and Maria Elena did not wish to have plates brought to them—better to have empty bellies, considering what they would probably be dealing with later.

**Teresa and Maria Elena** were both garbed in plain black serge skirts and starched white cotton blouses with sleeves rolled above the elbow. Their single-plaited hair was confined under white muslin scarves that started with a fold at their brows and fastened at the nape of the neck, with the excess falling in drapes behind. They'd also donned full-front white cotton aprons that tied in back. This ensemble was as close to a professional nurse's uniform as they could manage.

Scott walked in from the hall, coming to an abrupt halt and gasping when he saw them.

"What's the matter, Scott? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"Nothing... nothing's the matter..." Although it was common knowledge Scott had served as a Union officer during the war, he'd never spoken to anyone here of his time spent in hospitals populated mainly by volunteer nurses, as most all qualified doctors were needed at the front. The intense flashback had prickled his skin and caused him to break out in a cold sweat, paling his features with a faint greenish hue. The women had no idea of the effect their costumes had on Scott... and he wasn't about to tell them, either.

"What are you two supposed to be... operating theatre nurses?" Uncharacteristically sarcastic for Scott.

"Yes... exactly. How clever of you to notice!" Teresa could fling it right back when she was in the mood. And she _was_ in the mood. "What do _you_ want?"

"Just checking on Johnny," he said brusquely, striding over to the chaise and looking down at his younger brother... totally ignoring the other one. He seemed to be genuinely stricken, but his voice had angry overtones. "If Murdoch had been straight with us from the beginning, none of this would've happened!"

"Murdoch didn't know... he said so."

"I'm not talking about... _him..." _Scott jerked his head toward the slumped figure at the table.

"How did you know... how did _he_ know..." Scott gestured toward Johnny, "what was in those telegrams? Unless you opened and read them! When are you going to learn to stay out of other people's private business and leave well enough alone! If he'd still been here like he was supposed to be when Val and that marshal got here, it would have been all sorted out without your interference... but noooooo... Little Miss Nosy had to..."

"Keep your voice down. There's two sick men here!" _I won't cry. I will NOT cry!_

"Only one concerns me!"

**But for the sounds** of hooves thrumming on the paved tiles under the portico at that moment, many hurtful, unforgiveable words might have been exchanged. The trio hurried through the hallway just as Doctor Sam Jenkins' buggy pulled up... with Felipe Reyes at the reins and his horse tied behind. As Felipe hopped down and turned around to help Sam debark, they were horrified to see the good doctor's right arm solidly casted from knuckles to above the elbow.

Teresa suddenly felt faint... this was a disaster! She must have tottered... Maria Elena's hand came up under her elbow. Felipe reached around to get the doctor's bag and handed it toward the closest person—Scott unthinkingly started to reach out his right arm, forgetting it was in a sling. The bag clattered to the floor.

Doctor Sam looked confused. "I was under the impression it was someone else shot in the shoulder, not you?"

Scott nodded his white face. "Not me... dislocation..."

"Good heavens, man..." Doctor Sam interjected. "What are you doing up and around? You should be resting!"

"No... no... it's okay... It's Johnny who's been shot."

"Why am I not surprised? Where is he?"

"In the kitchen... come on," Teresa interjected. "What happened to _you?"_

Long story short, Sam had sustained a fractured wrist the day before when, while crossing the street, he'd been knocked down by a drunken lout racing his sulky through downtown Morro Coyo.

Not really noticing the one figure at the table, Sam made straight for the recumbent one in the chaise. He pulled up a chair and sat to do a preliminary inspection as best he could with one hand.

"Looks like you've got your work cut out for you, my dear," he dryly informed his protégée.

"My wo... _what did you say?''_

"You'll have to do this. Surely you're can't expect _me_ to operate?"

"Oh no... no! You can't be serious! I can't possibly..."

"I'm afraid I am and you must..."

"Noooooooooo!"

Doctor Sam took Teresa's hand as she flapped it in protest, trying to back away. "You can do this, Teresa. No doubt in my mind. And I'll be right there with you, guiding you..."

Scott frowned, his nose twitching. "What's _she_ got to do with this, Sam?" He took a step forward and leaned down. "Sam... have you been _drinking?_"

"Damn straight I have, Scott me boy... all the way here! You'd be, too, if you were just about to sit down to dinner and suddenly had to go on a damned uncomfortable twelve-mile buggy ride... in the dark with a broken wrist! Lucky your man got to me before I'd had my evening laudanum cocktail... he would've had to pour me into the seat. Alcohol I can handle and still make fairly competent decisions."

Scott was appalled.

With an apologetic nod to Teresa, the doctor continued. "Your sister aspires to a career in the medical field, Scott. She wants to become a doctor. And with our support, she'll get there. She's already applied to and been accepted by the Pennsylvania Female and _the _Women's Medical College of Pennsylvania after that.

"She _what?_ Does my father know about this?"

"We've been colluding on this for some time without his knowledge... all we need is his permission as her guardian and the funds to get her there. In the meantime, I'm conscripting her services as _locum tenens_ to attend your brother this evening."

Scott sputtered. "She's only a girl... she can't... he won't allow..."

"Can and will, Scott. There's no choice. Someone has to dig that bullet out of Johnny and I can't do it—obviously." Doctor Sam tapped on his cast for emphasis. "She has all the knowledge she needs and she'll be my hands."

Scott's mouth fell open at this astounding revelation and he gaped like a fish out of water. Teresa couldn't bear to look him in the eye just then, for fear of seeing inarguable opposition in them... and that he might be successful in influencing Murdoch.

Sam suddenly spied the other forlorn figure in the room, got up and walked over. "Who's this? What's his story?"

The girl took a deep breath. Doctor Sam was presenting her with an opportunity to showcase her serious intent...

**"****His name is Jody.** _He's_ the one with the shoulder wound and he's Scott's and Johnny's brother..."

_"__Excuse me?"_ Doctor Sam couldn't believe his ears. "_What_ brother?"

"That remains to be proven," Scott muttered.

Teresa gave him an ugly look. "Murdoch will have to explain... I admit, we don't know the whole story ourselves yet. But anyway... apparently, there was an incident on the road to Spanish Wells... Johnny was shot..."

"This kid shot Johnny?"

"The bastard stole my horse," Scott muttered.

Teresa gave him the stinkeye. "We're not sure... he might have... Mrs. Espinoza said he and Johnny had been fighting..."

"The old _pulque_ lady? What was she doing there?"

"She and her husband were on their way to market and found them on the road. They were bringing them back here in their mule cart when there was... um... an accident..."

"The bastard stole my..." Scott murmured.

Teresa gave him the hairy eyeball. "Scott dislocated his shoulder when he fell out of the cart."

"What were you doing in the cart?" Doctor Sam was intrigued.

"The bastard stole..." Scott mumbled.

Teresa gave him the skunkeye. "Vicente told me that Rosa said that Mr. Espinoza said that Scott just jumped in there and started beating on Jody..."

"Really? Why was that?" Sam's head was bobbing back and forth like a spectator at lawn tennis...

"The bastard..." Scott started...

"I believe we've grasped the concept now, Scott... thank you." Teresa's tone was icy.

Doc looked down, puzzled. "Well then... who shot _him?_ Did Johnny do it?"

"No... Gabriel did, earlier... back at Condor," Scott said.

Doctor Sam made a face. "Do you mean Gabriel McClanahan? _That _Gabriel? But... _why?"_

"That's what I'm trying to tell you..." Scott gritted his teeth, truly exasperated, "He's some kind of outlaw..."

"Gabe's an outlaw? Since when?" Doc Sam looked truly puzzled.

"No... no... not Gabe... _this_ joker. That's why the lawmen were there and that's why he ran..."

"Lawmen? What lawmen?"

"Val Crawford and some marshal..."

"And those other two men..." Teresa added.

"What other two men? Who were they?" Scott demanded, whirling on her.

"How the hell should I know?" Teresa shot back, "Two strangers asking after Johnny... I didn't talk to them... Maria Elena did..."

Scott suddenly remembered something Murdoch had mentioned on the ride back... something about bounty hunters after Jody... if only he'd been paying more attention instead of nursing his anger! He immediately connected the dots...

"Dammit! Those were bounty hunters—after _him_, not Johnny!" Scott's voice rose. "_That's _why Johnny was shot! _Dammit, Maria Elena!"_

"Don't you yell at her, you big bully!" Teresa retorted hotly, Maria Elena cowering behind her.

"I don't understand why Murdoch's trying so hard to protect an _outlaw_..." Scott shouted, affronted.

Another voice spoke up... a voice so soft that it got everyone's attention. Johnny was awake. "Ain't you forgettin' somethin'... _brother?" _

"Like what?"

"Like me bein' some kinda outlaw myself... when I first got here? An' Murdoch protectin' me ever since? You, too, as I recall..."

"That's different!"

"No it ain't. He can't help bein' who or what he is any more'n I could."

"We don't _know_ him," Scott persisted. "Hell... _Murdoch_ doesn't know him."

There was a lengthy and uneasy silence before Johnny spoke again. Teresa's ears perked up—this was getting interesting. Was Johnny Madrid about to dispense some nugget of wisdom about the meaning of life?

"Murdoch didn't _know_ us, either. You and me sure as shit didn't _know_ anything about each other then..." Johnny paused, "And now I'm wonderin'... maybe I don't know _you_ as well as I thought I did."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, I thought you was more fair-minded than to condemn a man before you heard his side..."

"Oh? And _have_ you heard his side yet? Has he explained why he's been deceiving us these past few weeks? Sneaking around... waiting for what? And Murdoch... can you think of one good reason why _he _shouldn't have told us about him up front?"

"No, brother, I ain't heard... but I aim to..."

Scott fidgeted impatiently. "I don't understand, John, why you're so defensive about someone you were trying to kill only a few hours ago! I overheard the old people talking in the wagon..."

Johnny's casual air slipped a hair. "I... uh... when we met up and there he was on Charlie... I reckon I thought he musta done somethin' to _you_... and I just sorta... saw red."

"And I, brother... when I saw you in that cart... I assumed he'd done something to you... like maybe he was the one who shot you... I'm afraid I lost control, too."

Tension seemed to leak out of the atmosphere while the two brothers contemplated what each had done—or worse, _might_ have done—in defense of the other, based on misunderstandings. Someone could easily have gotten very dead.

Another long period of quiet ensued, broken by Johnny.

"Scott's right about one thing... there was two of 'em... strangers... comin' up from Morro Coyo, I guess. Never seen 'em before. One of 'em pulled a rifle..."

"Why didn't they follow you through the Squeeze?"

"No idea... all I remember is my horse went through there like green apples through a cow and on the other end he ran right into Charlie and then dropped dead on the road."

"If I might make a suggestion..." Doctor Sam interposed. "Now that the air's been cleared somewhat and tempers have cooled down, it might be a good idea to get on with the business at hand. Johnny, we're going to start with you..."


	54. Chapter 54

_Chapter 54: _**THE SURROGATE SURGEON, ROUND ONE**

**"****It's just a flesh wound..."** Johnny complained. "Don't need all this fuss..."

"You need to shut up, brother." Scott said grimly, stepping out of the way as Ron, who'd been summoned from the greatroom along with Vicente, lifted the patient onto the table. "We've been down this road before. You know what's gotta happen."

"Yeah... I know." Johnny was fully awake and sober now. It wasn't so much the pain he dreaded—he'd been shot before and knew what to expect. It was the aftermath... the impaired mobility while recuperating, the constant hovering by well-meaning folks who only wanted to make him feel better when all _he_ wanted was be left alone in a darkened, private place—just like the animals did. And while he'd never admit it out loud, he harbored a deathly fear of infection—had done ever since he'd almost lost an arm down in Mexico.

Teresa's medical texts were laid out on the sideboard in order, bookmarked at the appropriate passages: Gray's _Anatomy_, illustrating muscles of the upper leg; Gross' _Manual of Military Surgery_ and Erichsen's _Science and Art of Surgery, _at the segments describing the extraction of bullets; and Sargent's surgical textbook, the section pertaining to anesthesia. Hammond's _Treatise on Hygiene_ followed up the lot in case anyone needed convincing of the need for cleanliness.

Murdoch and Gabe, who'd been awakened by the loud voices, had come running to the kitchen to see what the disturbance was all about. They were just as quickly ushered back out again along with Vicente, told to return to the greatroom and stay there. The doors to the central hallway and dining room were firmly closed. Scott absolutely refused to leave. Doctor Sam knew when to pick his battles and allowed it. The exterior door between the kitchen hall and portico was locked. Ivelisse, Nereida and Inés were detailed to look after any latecomers, who'd be forced to come around to the front door, and were told not to come into the kitchen unless sent for. Jody had been shuffled from his chair to Johnny's former place on the chaise.

While Teresa washed and dried her hands, Doctor Sam rapped out instructions to the temporary orderlies. "Make sure his nightshirt's not in the way and use a sheet for a drape." Maria Elena and Teresa had decorously turned away during this phase of prepping.

"Is it safe?" Teresa asked.

"Yeah... you can turn around now... _Florence_," Scott smirked, somehow still under the impression she would be assisting the doctor, instead of the other way around.

She whirled to face him. "_Miss _Nightingale to you! And stay out of the way. If we can think of something useful you can do, we'll tell you."

A sarcastic retort died on Scott's lips when from the table came that soft voice again.

"What she says, brother... do it. Doc ain't got all night..."

**Teresa took a deep breath** and tried not to think about the living, breathing human being under her hands... who was also her adopted brother. Doctor Sam reminded her that Johnny was strong in body and spirit and possessed the resilience of youth. He'd survived other gunshot wounds with little aftereffect... no reason to fear he might not survive this one.

Johnny had been blanketed and sheeted so that his only exposed parts were his head from the chin up and his right leg from the groin down. The patient was anesthetized, breathing regularly and with a rhythmic though slightly elevated pulse. Standing at his head was Maria Elena, press-ganged anesthesiologist after a crash course, with the bottle of chloroform and a wad of folded cotton cloth. To Teresa's left—swathed in one of the cook's pristine white aprons, with carbolically scrubbed pink hands—Scott manned a bowl of boiled water, cooled now, with chunks of sterilized natural sponge floating in it. He promised he could handle a pair of forceps and a bit of sponge just as easily with his left hand as his right.

Doctor Sam stood immediately to Teresa's right, presiding over the tray of sterilized instruments balanced on Johnny's shins, with the anatomy book propped open against a calf. They were ready to begin. He only had one hand to work with but it had been scrubbed clean by Maria Elena in case he needed it.

Doc pointed to the illustration of muscles of the thigh, advising her to mentally align that image over the patch of bullet-pocked flesh in front of her. Then he handed her the depth probe, reminding her to focus on the leg alone, to close her mind to the fact that a body was attached. The illustration also marked major arteries. When Teresa announced the probe felt to be glancing off something comparatively solid, the doctor beamed.

"Easy peasy! Not too deep in the _vastus lateralis_ and right between the femoral and branch arteries!"

"Easy for _you_ to say!" Teresa grumbled. "Scalpel..."

Teresa had practiced this procedure many times—but always on parts of deceased quadrupeds... never on living tissue. She'd not had to deal with fresh blood welling from a wound as it was now doing, but Scott was proving adept at sponging as needed without getting in her way. Maria Elena kept an eagle eye on Johnny's face in case an eyelash fluttered. Sam continued to provide ongoing reassurance, noting that Teresa kept her eyes carefully averted from the sponge bowl at her elbow as the water within turned from pink-tinged to cranberry red.

The doctor also observed, with silent approval, that his surgical protegée was gaining confidence as she incised skin and muscle, with short, precise strokes, to create a wide enough passage for the bullet extractor. The room, already warm and damp from water still hot on the stove and in the boiler, was positively stifling. When perspiration started trickling down from under Teresa's headdress, Sam considerately mopped her face with a wad of linen.

"Thanks," Teresa mumbled. "Forceps, please..." Her tone was just right—not questioning, as it had been at first, but firm and concise. Doctor Sam Jenkins was mightily pleased—this intelligent young woman would make a competent doctor and surgeon some day... and he would be proud to have played the primary role of mentor to her creation. He could only hope Murdoch Lancer could be persuaded to take the long view here. Hers was too fine a mind to waste in some farmer or rancher's kitchen...

**"****Got it!" Teresa exclaimed in triumph, **holding up the extractor with its prize before dropping the offending missile with a plong in Scott's sponge bowl. "Retractors—the small ones will do..." Then, "needle..." Sam handed over the first of several needles, both straight and curved, that he'd already prepared with suture silk and catgut.

When Teresa asked for the scissors, Sam checked the time on the brass ship's clock mounted on the wall above the sideboard. Slightly less than forty minutes from the time Johnny'd gone under... not too shabby. He signaled to Maria Elena she could withhold the chloroform—she seemed a bit unsteady... some of the vapor must have gotten to her. Within a few minutes, as Teresa bandaged the leg, Johnny started slowly coming around.

He seemed puzzled to find her smiling down on him, with the front of her apron splattered in blood. Her right hand was holding his and her left stroking the side of his face. "Welcome back..."

"Hey, _chiquita_... musta dropped off." His voice sounded disoriented and weak even to himself. "Where's Doc?"

"I'm right here, John. How're you feeling?" Sam's face swam into view.

"Better... ain't hurtin' as much... when we gonna get started?"

Teresa managed a tiny grin and Doc snorted. "Oh... we're _done_ with you_,_ Sparky..."

"Already? Dang, you're good! Didn't feel a thing..."

"Don't thank me... thank Teresa... she did all the work."

"Huh?"

A familiar face loomed upside down directly over Johnny's—he was looking right up Maria Elena's nostrils. _"Sí, es verdad! Teresita toma la bala de la pierna!"_

"Teresa?"

"She did indeed," Sam cut in, chortling. "You just rest there for a few minutes until you get your bearings, then we'll get you up..."

Maria Elena stayed at her post, her work-worn fingers weaving through Johnny's hair with the same tenderness she would stroke a kitten. He closed his eyes and let her. It felt nice. The other three moved about cleaning up bloodied materials and putting instruments back in the boiling pan for resterilization.

Johnny was floating on the edge of a natural doze when they came back for him and helped him to sit up, legs dangling over the side of the table. Sam made sure the nightshirt was discreetly pulled down when Teresa had her back turned.

"How do you feel now? Any dizziness?"

"A little," Johnny admitted. "I think I can stand up, though."

The team had already ascertained how they were going to manage the patient swap.

"Here's what we're gonna do... you and Jody have to switch places. Ladies, are you ready?"

They were. Maria Elena and Teresa hauled Jody up and held him off to the side while Sam and Scott put Johnny back on the chaise.

"Reminds me of playing musical chairs at birthday parties..." Scott grunted.

"Why can't I just go upstairs to bed? I'm tired now," Johnny grumbled.

"Because," Doctor Sam interrupted, "I need you to be down here under observation for a while and I can't be in two places at once. Just close your eyes and rest. Let me know if you feel nauseous or start to get a headache. It's a common aftereffect of chloroform."

"What I need is a couple shots of tequila," the patient affirmed.

"Yeah? Well, what you're getting is chamomile tea with honey and laudanum."

"Don't want no laudanum..."

"You'll be singing a different tune in a few minutes..."


	55. Chapter 55

_Chapter 55: _**THE SURROGATE SURGEON, ROUND TWO**

**Teresa rolled her neck** and shoulders to relieve tension while waiting for round two to commence. Doctor Sam recommended that everyone take a bathroom break whether or not they felt they needed one—then, of course, everyone had to re-scrub. What he _didn't_ mention to Teresa was that he suspected this second surgery was going to be more complicated and take longer than the first one. He didn't want to undermine her confidence—she was doing so splendidly.

Teresa's next patient, though appearing perfectly relaxed with fingers splayed lightly on both sides of his belly as he lay on the table, was—in a word—a wreck. Considerably more battered than the last time she'd been this close to him with his shirt off... not even two weeks ago upstairs after the foaling shed incident. There were still barely discernible traces of _those_ bruises underlying a phalanx of contusions marching from jaw to belly—some she assumed must be today's contributions from Scott and Johnny. Other older ones were from unknown causes.

The myriad of lacerations—mostly on shoulders and arms—were consistent with having ridden through thorny scrub brush, and there remained a thin crescent of scab under one eye. The slash wound on the forearm looked particularly nasty—bath salts had reduced a healing scab to a gummy gray coating over proud flesh, through which poked the spiky ends of what stitches remained.

Jody's overall physical state reminded her of Johnny's when he'd first appeared the previous year—still undernourished and underweight from weeks in a Mexican prison although a month had passed between the day he'd been liberated and when he'd finally shown up in Morro Coyo. During his incarceration he'd been brutally beaten—she'd personally seen the faded evidence of that while nursing him after he'd been shot in the back his second day in residence. That plus other, more permanent, legacies of an ongoing struggle to survive in an unforgiving world. Nowadays she also understood a whole lot more about psychological scarring.

Jody lay so still Teresa couldn't even be certain he was still breathing. She leaned in close, feeling for a carotid pulse just to be sure. What bothered her even more was the complete lack of reaction at being touched...

"Are you in there?" she whispered.

His eyes opened briefly—irises an iridescent verdegris and pupils shrunk to pinpoints from the lights directly overhead—but there was no recognition in them and he didn't answer. They closed again. Teresa shivered and took a step backward.

Doctor Sam touched her elbow to get her attention. "You ready?"

"Yes... I guess so... Sam... something's not right here. What's the matter with him?"

"Excuse me... there's something you should know..." Ronnie had been lurking in the background, stepping up only when patients needed wrangling. It had already been established that he and Jody were friends who worked closely together. Now he moved into the light.

"Jody warned me, that first night riding herd, that he's subject to spells..."

"Spells?" Sam was on alert. "What kind of spells? You mean, like fits... convulsions?"

"No... he described them as mental lapses lasting a few seconds or minutes. He said he's not aware when it happens and doesn't remember, but if he blanks out and I happen to notice, don't do anything... just tell him about it afterwards."

"Sounds like epilepsy."

"That's what I thought at first. I have a cousin with that kind of epilepsy... so I know a seizure when I see one."

"Have you witnessed any of these? Can you describe his behavior during these... events?"

"Yes... several... they only last a few seconds. He just stops talking right in the middle of a sentence... or stops doing whatever he's doing. He's there, but he isn't... _there_... know what I mean? And then he picks up right where he left off, like nothing's happened. There's more..."

"More?" Teresa echoed in dismay.

"He said he's had spells that lasted days and weeks, but not any recently so that probably wouldn't happen. He has no memory of what happens during that lost time."

"Fascinating!" the doctor commented with fervor. "I've heard of fugue states and psychogenic amnesia but never observed it... I wonder if...?"

"Doctor!" Teresa interjected, forcefully redirecting the man's attention to the immediate problem. "We have a patient on the table... a bleeding patient!" Just how _much_ alcohol had the man imbibed? How impaired were his mental processes at the moment? Would she be able to depend on his further guidance as she had while working on Johnny? It was a terrifying thought.

"Yes... yes... of course..." Sam was nodding his head thoughtfully. Or maybe he was just trying to loosen the cobwebs.

Teresa made a judgment call... they'd waited this long, they could wait a few more minutes. "Scott... if you please, would you go to the dining room and bring back a cup of coffee for Sam?"

"Yes."

The doctor demurred at first when offered the strong black liquid... he preferred his coffee heavily creamed and sugared... but caved in under Teresa's merciless glare and gulped it down. In a matter of minutes he appeared sufficiently restored and able to refocus on the task at hand.

"Has he spoken at all since he was brought in this evening?" Sam queried.

"Not to me," Ron said.

"Scott, Teresa... either of you remember the last time you heard Jody speak?"

"When I was having a look at him, before we put him on the wagon... I asked a question and he answered it," Teresa said. "But nothing since."

Doctor Sam sighed. "Scott... would you go ask your father if there's a history of epilepsy? He still can't come in here—we just need to know."

"I'll be right back." All the combativeness had ebbed although it was plain to see Scott was still unhappy with the situation. He returned in two minutes with an affirmative answer.

"What do we do now, Sam?" Teresa asked with a quaver in her voice. "I read that anesthesia can trigger a seizure..."

"We'll just have to take that chance—the bullet still has to come out. For all we know, he could be having one right now. Scott... you'll have to wash up again. Let's be on our toes here, folks! Any of you notice anything that looks like a fit's coming on, speak up! Let's get going... Maria Elena, you can start... Maria Elena?"

Maria Elena's eyes rolled back as she slowly slid off her stool—the chloroform fumes had finally done her in. Fortunately Ronnie'd been standing right behind her and caught her before she hit the floor. Before anyone could react, he'd propped her into one of the chairs with arms and deftly took her place on the stool.

Ronnie seemed to know what he was doing, sitting with his head relatively close to Jody's, where he could audibly monitor respiration and pulse rate with two fingers on the carotid artery. The chloroform bottle was at arm's reach and Ronnie was employing it sparingly. Sam recalled, then, that he had several times in the past availed himself of Reva Goldman's services as nurse anesthetist when he'd stood in for Green River's sole physician, Morrie Morgenstern. The boy must have been taught by the mother.

**With Jody rolled** to his left side and wedged with pillows, the doctor made a visual inspection of the wound site, palpating the area with the fingers of his left hand.

"That's odd..." he commented. "There's no exit wound and the scapula hasn't been compromised that I can tell. The bullet should be resting right up against it but I can't feel it. You try..."

Doc was right. The solid lump that should have been lurking not too far under the skin simply wasn't there. The reference books were once again piled on the sideboard. Retrieving _Gray's Anatomy,_ Sam flipped to the series of skeletal charts showing articulation of the shoulder girdle. He and Teresa both studied it, trying to figure out where the errant projectile could be hiding itself.

Sam turned to Ronnie. "I don't suppose you were there when this happened..."

"Actually I was, sir... I happened to be looking right at Joey... Jody, I mean, when Mister McClanahan made the shot."

"Can you describe for me, Ron, exactly what Jody was doing when the shot was fired. His body position... where his arms were at that exact moment?"

As the boy concluded his excellent recall of the scene—he had extremely sharp eyesight—and mimed the action, Doc Sam started nodding his head. He turned to Teresa. "I have a pretty good idea where the damned thing's got to... and it won't be as easy to get at as John's was. You up to to it?"

"I can do it," she maintained stoutly.

"Atta girl! Let me show you..." Using a pencil as a pointer, Sam showed, on the motion sequencing illustrations, how the shoulder blade rode up and down according to the arm position, and how the bullet must have entered. "The horse was taking the incline in leaps as they reached the tree line... Jody would've been leaning far forward to keep his seat... with his right arm raised up, probably to fend off a branch, when he was hit..."

"Yes... so... where did it go?"

"You tell me, my fine young apprentice... think about the trajectory, if his torso was turned sideways so he could look over his left shoulder..." Sam handed her the pencil and gestured at the page. Teresa leaned over to study the drawing.

"Oh... um... let's see... scapula down... clavicle up... and it didn't exit, so it's got to be lodged... right here, at the scapular notch... or here, at the back of the coracoid process?"

"Excellent! That's where we'll start..."

**Doctor Jenkins hadn't been** exaggerating... finding _this_ bullet took twice as long as the first one. Finally Teresa asked for a scalpel and, a few minutes later, the extractor. The projectile was solidly wedged at an angle and the implement kept slipping off. Teresa let slip a most unladylike word. The girl was tiring and Sam was getting worried... not about her competence, but whether or not she had enough strength left to finish the procedure. He dared not let it show.

At last the projectile pulled loose after a forceful tug. Teresa dropped it in the basin and stepped back for a few moments to flex her arms and hands and fingers. Scott used tongs to fish the misshapen ball of lead out of the basin, whistling.

"Been a long time since I've seen one these!"

"What is it?" Teresa asked.

"A minié ball... from a black powder rifle. As far I know, none of our people use those anymore."

"I don't care if it's a playing marble!" Teresa hissed. "It's just one more way you stupid men find to kill each other!"

It was time to close up and that proved to be the most difficult part of the entire procedure because Teresa'd had to cut through two separate muscle groups going in different directions from right where they joined the bone. She had to feel her way with needle and fingers as blood and tincture of iodine pooled in the incision as quickly as Scott sponged it. She had to pause often to flex cramped finger joints.

At last it was done, the epidermal layer closed with eight tidy little sutures, and Teresa moved on to the knife wound. Doctor Sam pronounced that as the infection wasn't yet deepseated it could be best dealt with by removal of the existing stitches, minor debridement and a thorough flushing with carbolic solution, then restitching. He recommended a light gauze dressing to allow air circulation.

Except for an occasional involuntary shudder, which Ron had quickly squelched with chloroform, Jody hadn't moved or made any sound. Again Teresa stepped back, her shoulders aching with tension and a monstrous crick in her neck. Sam clasped his free hand on her shoulder, forcing her into a chair, then squeezing gently. "Good job, my girl! No... _great_ job! Your patients will be up and around in no time. Now I want you to sit quietly for at least fifteen minutes and have some hot tea."

To Maria Elena, who recovered swiftly, he said, "Teresa's exhausted... when she's had her tea, would you take her upstairs and see she gets to bed in good order?"

"Sí, Señor..."

Teresa objected. "I'll go up when _they_ go up, not before."

"Of course, of course... that'll be taken care of soon," he soothed.

'Soon' being an overly optimistic expectation...


	56. Chapter 56

_Chapter 56: _**ALLOCATION AND ARGUMENT**

**The grand staircase of the ****_hacienda_** debouched into a lobby of sorts at the second floor landing, with four doors leading to linen and supply closets and a rarely-used servants' back stairwell. The lobby accessed a rectangular gallery overlooking the central courtyard, in the Moorish style. Before Murdoch'd had it glassed in—at horrendous expense—the gallery had been open-air. Arranged around the gallery were the bedrooms, each with a connecting door to its neighbor in addition to the gallery entrance. Originally there'd been twelve bedrooms, but one had been sacrificed, in the interest of modernity, to create the upstairs bathroom. Murdoch, Scott, Johnny and Teresa each occupied a large corner suite with windows on one wall and French doors opening to private balconies on the other.

The other seven bedrooms, though smaller, were always kept in readiness for guests. Scott had initially occupied the one next to Johnny's original childhood bedroom until the unused fourth corner suite had been redecorated and refurnished to his liking. It was far enough removed from his brother to squelch Johnny's annoying habit of popping through the connecting door whenever he felt like it, without knocking. Scott placed a high premium on privacy. Also, Johnny snored... noisily... and Scott was a light sleeper.

**Doctor Sam had sent Ron** to the greatroom to fetch Vicente, and then to the portico to get the litter. Someone had thoughtfully washed it off and propped it against a column to dry.

Once fully awake, Johnny loudly asserted his independence—refusing to be carried upstairs, claiming he wasn't that badly injured and could get there by himself. After a few abortive attempts to negotiate the staircase, he grudgingly allowed assistance from Vicente and Ron, with Murdoch hovering anxiously at the foot in case of a misstep. After a detour by the necessary, they got him tucked up in bed, after which he was inveigled into downing a mug of laudanum-and-honey-laced tea by an eyelash-fluttering, gently flirtatious Nereida whose other assignment was to guard him until he fell safely asleep.

Jody was still out of it when the litter-bearers trundled him upstairs and into the room that had been prepared for him. Doctor Sam then insisted that Teresa retire as promised, although he agreed she could sit with Jody until he recovered consciousness. Before she went up, however, a conference was held regarding allocation of the remaining bedrooms.

It was agreed that Doctor Sam take the one between Johnny's and Jody's. That way, with the connecting doors left open, both patients would have immediate assistance if any was required during the night. Murdoch gave silent thanks that the original designer had planned for a family that entertained frequently and in anticipation of multiples of overnight guests.

**Ron had volunteered** to watch over Jody until Teresa finished her evening ablutions. Gowned, robed and ready for bed, she came in just as Ivelisse arrived with a tray bearing water, juice and meds. Jody was awake and more or less alert, having been propped up on pillows with Ron's help.

Ivelisse left. Ron considerately yielded his chair and retreated to the open connecting door to his room, where he lounged against the frame. Teresa stood at the foot of the bed to ensure she was in Jody's direct line of sight.

"Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

"Tired... sore."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Yes."

"Remember me?"

"Yes."

"What's the last thing you remember?" Teresa persisted.

Jody's speech was slow, hesitant, with great effort... but at least he _was_ speaking.

"Wagon... bath. Not this..." He tried to shift and winced, touching his bandaged right shoulder with his left hand.

"You don't remember being shot?"

"Huh?"

"You were shot, Jody... we took a bullet out of you. You don't remember this?"

A pause and a dubious look. "No."

"Anesthesia... the miracle of modern medicine," she said lightly. "We were afraid... well, you hadn't spoken in several hours... we thought you might be... having some sort of..."

"Who... told?" His eyes went to Ron, who was grinning sheepishly from his vantage point.

"You may as well know, Jody... everyone's on to you now... game's up."

"What... now?"

"Honestly? I don't know. Murdoch will want to speak with you first, I'm sure. There'll be a proper introduction to your brothers, naturally..."

"They don't... want me here..." His tone was as flat as his eyes, which had lost their vibrant color.

"That's not true!" Teresa came around to the side of the bed and sat on the edge, ignoring the chair. She leaned over to grasp his left hand, since the one closest to her was hampered by a sling.

"They'll come around. You just have to give them some time to get used to the idea..."

"Not... my impression..."

"Do you know their backstory... how they arrived here not knowing about each other?"

"A little..."

"Well, believe me... they did _not_ get along at first! Not with each other, and not with Murdoch either. After you've been here a while..."

"Won't be... here that long. Not my... intention."

"Why didn't you say who you were when you first got here?"

"Had my... reasons..."

She let go of his hand and stood up. "I'm sure this will all be straightened out tomorrow... and you'll feel a lot better about everything. Right now we're all exhausted and need sleep. Ron's right next door if you need to... if you need anything."

On impulse, Teresa leaned over and kissed Jody on the cheek. "It'll be all right, you'll see."

But it wasn't all right. Far from it.

**Downstairs in the kitchen, **Maria Elena and the two remaining maids had sprung into action, expunging all evidence of its prior usage. To the women's ill-concealed amusement—and amazement, because men weren't prone to volunteering for skivvy work—Gabriel and Vicente had appointed themselves busboys and were ferrying items from the dining room. Murdoch was scraping leftovers into the pig bucket and handing soiled dishes and bowls to their two one-armed _compadres_, Sam and Scott, who were immersing them in the huge galvanized sink where they would soak until morning.

By the time all was done that needed to be done, it was closing in on one o'clock in the morning. Vicente was eager to get home to his own bed. Gabriel and the doctor filed upstairs. Nereida came down. Maria Elena and the three tired maids, tripping after her like chicks following a hen, did a walkabout to ensure lamps were extinguished. Maria Elena headed toward her own home while Nereida, Ivelisse and Inés trudged off to the girls' dormitory. Which left Murdoch and Scott on their own in the darkened premises.

"We should probably go on to bed ourselves," the father remarked, "It's been... an unusual day."

"That it has," the son agreed wearily, "I'm going to check on Charlie before I turned in."

"Want some company?"

Scott hesitated. "No thanks." He turned and went to the mudroom across the hall from the bath to exchange house slippers for barn boots from among the assortment kept there. Murdoch followed him, leaning on his walking stick at the hall door as Scott lit a small oil lantern to light his way even though there was still sufficient moonlight casting a silvery glow over the sleeping ranch.

"Son... I know you're angry..." Murdoch ventured awkwardly.

Scott stood tall, his face hard and set as he let the vitriol spill out. "Damn straight. You lied to us. Murdoch. You knew about this kid all along... just when I was beginning to believe that trust counted for something in this family..."

"Scott... I never lied about him. I didn't even know about him until a week ago—that's the truth."

"You could've explained as soon as you got home... lying by omission is still a lie."

"But you weren't even here for me to tell..." Murdoch protested.

"So what? You could've told Teresa and John... if Johnny'd been killed today it would've been your fault! You could've said something up at the camp... if you'd spoken up, we wouldn't be in this mess!" Scott was too caught up in his own fury to recognize the despair on his father's face.

Murdoch held up a hand. "Son... please... I acknowledge that I withheld information... there were reasons, if only you'd listen..."

"How many others are there, huh?," Scott challenged. "How many other Lancer byblows are gonna come crawling out of the woodwork wanting a piece of this hundred thousand acre pie?"


	57. Chapter 57

**• • • • • ****SUNDAY, MAY 7 • • • • •**

_Chapter 57: _**DAYBREAK IN THE BIG HOUSE**

**Hacienda at dawn...** Though short of sleep, Maria Elena Melendez was at her usual post at the cookstove. She'd advised her underlings they could sleep in as long as they liked, as a reward for their service beyond the call of duty the previous evening, but all three turned up at five o'clock on the dot—not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but consumed with curiosity and anticipation at what promised to be an extraordinarily interesting day. There hadn't been this much excitement—or this many guests—since the day the patrón's sons had come here to live! Loll around in bed and miss any fireworks or gossip? No way!

Everything that could be pre-cooked for breakfast was in process and could be held in the warming oven. Hot water had been carried to both the upstairs and downstairs lavatories and extra towels set out. The dining room table was set for ten although Maria Elena doubted the two injured _hijos_ would be coming downstairs. Surreptitious peeks into various bedrooms revealed that all but one occupant were still asleep, including Murdoch in an easy chair in Johnny's room.

Scott wasn't in his room and his bed hadn't been slept in. Maria Elena immediately sent Inés to investigate, telling her to start with the stables to ascertain if his saddle or any of the horses were missing. The girl was back in fifteen minutes with the news that Señor Scott had slept in the bunkhouse along with Felipe, Miguel _and_ Vicente. Agosto had been up all night with a colicky horse and had seen him come in to the stables around one-thirty—in his nightclothes! Scott had spent some time with his horse, then had headed straight for the bunkhouse rather than the Big House. The young master had done that twice previously—both times after a bitter set-to with the _patrón_. They must have had another one last night after she, Maria Elena, had left the premises. Though uneducated, she had uncommonly acute insight into why people acted as they did... and a pretty good idea of what was rankling Scott.

**Maria Elena had not been particularly surprised** or upset when apprised of that new young man's relationship to the _patrón_, other than with herself for not having spotted the clues earlier... when her precious Juanito had been in the kitchen at the same time as this new boy with the strange name, which in her mind she'd already shortened to 'Danito'. Now that she had the whole story, it all made perfect sense.

Herself very young, recently wed and newly employed by the previous owner, Maria Elena hadn't had the chance to get to know Señor Lancer's first wife. He'd just bought the property and was undertaking renovations when the land wars started up. For her safety he'd been forced to return his pregnant wife to her own people far away, only she'd perished enroute after giving birth. The child was thereafter brought up by the lady's family and Maria Elena had never seen him. She was certain she would have got along wonderfully with Scott's mother.

As for Señor Lancer's second wife... _ai ai ai!_ Maria Elena and Cipriano had both been appalled when the _patrón_ had turned up with that little _puta_ after a horse-buying trip to Texas. The woman had made everyone's lives miserable, putting on airs, making unreasonable demands and throwing tantrums, especially during her pregnancy. She was a great beauty and the _patrón_ was besotted with her, blind to her faults.

In those days when Murdoch Lancer was still building his herd and acquiring land, he was often away on business. His employees, though loyal to a fault, realized the futility of confronting him with what went on in his absence. They knew the woman would run off—it was only a matter of time. That she took the child with her was a shock, though... she'd hated motherhood and even refused to nurse her own infant.

Maria Elena had looked after Johnny, her _Juanito_, doted on him, when he wasn't with the wetnurse. She thought she would never get over the heartbreak of losing him... and maybe wouldn't have if she hadn't soon had her own babies.

And then Señor Lancer had brought that third one home! Same old scenario, different _perra_. Fortunately, _that_ one had run off before he could marry her... and now there was this _bastardo_... whom Maria Elena couldn't help but like.

Maria Elena had tried to feel offended, on behalf of her _patrón_, at having this new onus dumped on him. He'd been so pleased to finally make peace with his two _legitimate_ sons, to have them now living here with him on the _estancia_... but he'd not had an easy time of it, mentally, readjusting to active fatherhood of _boys_... who were now men.

At least, all these years, Murdoch'd had Teresa on whom to lavish his parental urges, even more so since the death of her biological father. He'd been on the verge of asking the girl if she would consent to a formal adoption, had even asked Maria Elena's opinion as the surrogate mother. But that decision had been deferred in favor of addressing the resurgent land pirate problem by summoning the estranged sons to help fight it. In any case, Maria Elena had told him it was too soon... Teresa was still grieving for her father.

**Before this latest upset,** another storm had been brewing in the household which Cipriano, Maria Elena and Jelly all three keenly sensed but were hesitant about voicing to Señor Lancer—and that was the age-old case of the neediest, most problematic child garnering a disportionate share of a parent's attention, without said parent even being aware of it. In this house it was the second-born son.

By the very nature of his upbringing, Scott was the good child, the overachiever who did everything right. Johnny was the direct opposite. Quite naturally the father assumed a protective stance towards the troubled child, which manifested itself in closer supervision and much constructive criticism... which might have been appropriate if they'd been small boys. Not so much with young men in their mid-twenties. Sooner or later and no matter the age, the neglected one would start to regard this as preferential treatment and would come to resent it. Bitterly.

This was how Maria Elena'd interpreted Scott's behavior the previous evening... oh yes!, she'd noticed that right off... felt it, smelled it. It was why he'd chosen to bed down in the bunkhouse instead of his own quarters. It had nothing to do with the condition of his horse. Well, perhaps _solo un poco_.

She faulted herself for not having said something last night, for not having offered comfort to the first-born who was so obviously suffering his own miseries. Granted, his injuries weren't as severe as his brother's... _either_ of his brothers, she corrected herself. But they should have been acknowledged. His father should have seen that, made time for him and at least had kind words for him if nothing else. So now _she_ was put out with the _patrón_ as well, with the kind of anger any mother feels in the evidence of someone else's neglected child. Definitely, today she would speak with him, yes! Right after breakfast. Or maybe after lunch. After all, he would be stiff from sleeping in that chair all night, and irritable...

These were the thoughts swirling through Maria Elena Melendez' mind as she stirred a pot of freshly prepared _salsa_ for the _huevos rancheros_, when she was startled by a voice at her elbow—the _patrón_ himself!

_Ai!_ Jumping straight up, Maria Elena dropped her paddle. It bounced once off the stovetop and flipped to the floor, spattering droplets of red tomato sauce and morsels of onion and green and orange peppers all over the both of them. Murdoch ruefully eyed the abstract designs on his _formerly_ white shirt as the cook/housekeeper clapped a hand to her mouth in dismay. She opened her mouth to apologize but he beat her to it... he should have seen she was deep in thought, it was all his fault for creeping up on her like that...

Maria Elena suddenly burst into tears. Murdoch took his employee by both hands and gently seated her at the kitchen table, making appropriately soothing noises and presenting his own clean handkerchief. He then fetched two mugs and poured coffee for both before seating himself.

"Now then, Maria Elena... tell me what's wrong..."

**And that's when it all spilled out... **first as a five-minute diatribe in rapid-fire Spanish, of which the rancher caught only every tenth word... and then as a lecture repeated in English—slowly—to ensure he got the full import and nuance of her displeasure.

"Well..." Murdoch sat up straight with a look of complete astonishment on his face and making useless gesture with both hands. "I don't know what to say... it just... this just never occurred to me..."

A lengthy discussion ensued... more reciprocal apologies exchanged, understandings declared, intentions announced, promises made. Meanwhile, the three housemaids drifted in and out of the room, casting incurious glances toward the not unusual spectacle of their employer and their immediate supervisor having a _tête-à-tête_ at the kitchen table.

What was _not_ usual was a potful of salsa abandoned on a hot eye and on the verge of scorching, and the mess on the stove itself. Quickly taking stock of the situation, Inés wiped it up without comment and took over cooking. Nereida dispatched herself upstairs to take stock of current events, reporting back that Señorita Teresa was dressing and would be down directly. Señor Johnny was on his way to the lavatory with assistance from the doctor. The other boy—whose name escaped her—was awake. The old man and the other boy—the tall one with the beautiful curly hair—were in his room talking with him.

**Teresa made her appearance,** taking the chair next to Murdoch's and helping herself to coffee. The girl was unexpectedly cheerful, considering the travails of the previous evening—but then, she'd always amazed her guardian with her ability to bounce back from adversity. She'd encountered Johnny in his nightshirt in the hallway, leaning on Doctor Sam's arm. Although wan and grimacing with every step, he announced he was coming down for breakfast. Sam was shaking his head 'no'. Johnny'd shot her a mischievous wink before Sam closed the door to the lav behind them, leaving her relieved but not surprised. It would take a lot more than a mere bullet in the leg to keep Johnny Madrid down!

Vicente entered the kitchen, fresh from the communal bathhouse where he'd joined the occupants of the bunkhouse in morning ablutions. Why yes... he'd also slept out there last night—it was either that or sleep on the floor, his wife having surrendered _their_ bed to the Espinozas for the night and claiming the sofa for herself. He'd just come over to borrow some milk and eggs as Rosa hadn't planned on feeding two extra mouths this morning.

Remembering the old lady's comment about the wedding anniversary, Murdoch insisted they be invited to breakfast with the family. Vicente and Rosa were also invited. Maria Elena rolled her eyes as Vicente went off to collect them. Did Maria Elena know about this anniversary? Yes, of course she did. Not for the first time he wondered how on earth his long-time cook/housekeeper always managed to keep herself current on everyone else's business.

The three maids had, in the meantime, been revolving between stove and larder and dining room. Maria Elena jumped up to regain control of her kitchen and advise that breakfast would be served in thirty minutes, if everyone would kindly clear out of the way and go park themselves elsewhere.

Chucho came in through the kitchen door to announce that Señor Jelly and the Señor Marshal had ridden in a few moments ago and were down at the stable. They'd be along as soon as they washed up at the bathhouse. Also, Miguel and Felipe, who were having their breakfast at Felipe's mother's house, would have the supply wagon by the kitchen door in an hour to load up whatever was going out that day. Also, in case anyone was interested in his whereabouts, Señor Scott was in the stables with his horse, in his nightwear and looking ornery. Should he be told breakfast was almost ready?

Murdoch excused himself to the stable to fetch his first-born. A fit of sulkiness he could forgive, but rude behavior with guests in the house was intolerable. On his way out he encountered Jelly and the marshal on the way in and stopped to bring them up to date...

"They're here... both of them?" Sammons was incredulous.

Jelly was stunned. "How... where?"

"Yes, both of them... I'm sorry you went all that way for nothing. Marshal, both those boys were shot—they were unconscious when brought in... I'm asking you to hold off taking any action until we've had a chance to talk to them and hear what happened."

"They gonna be alright, boss?" Jelly asked.

"Yes... Sam says so."

"Will I be able to speak with them?" Sammons asked.

"With Johnny, yes... with the other... well, he's not quite himself... or wasn't yesterday, in any case."

"And what does that mean?"

"Marshal... with all due respect, I have a houseful of guests, including you. My ward is in a frenzy. My housekeeper is having a nervous breakdown. Two of my sons are invalided upstairs and one's having a pout in the stables... which is where I'm headed to try to pry him out. Could we talk about this later? They're about to serve breakfast... why don't you go on inside...?"

"Certainly, Mr. Lancer, be glad to. Ah... I apologize for my... _our_ appearance. Although Mr. Hoskins and I spruced up in your excellent bathhouse, our warbags are on the wagon that was bringing the religious people and the boy back... and I don't see it anywhere, so we were obliged to wear yesterday's clothing."

Oh my God! Murdoch stopped dead in his tracks... he'd completely forgot about Brother Paul and Sister Mary Catriona! And Chucho! Where were they? What calamity could possibly have befallen them? They'd had ample time to reach the _hacienda!_ Unless, perhaps... they had turned back or never left at all!

"Is something wrong, sir?" Marshal Sammons inquired politely.

"No... yes... I just realized we have some missing folks... after breakfast we'll have to organize another search party. I don't have time to explain at the moment... if you'll excuse me..."

With that additional trouble on his mind, he hurried toward the stables as quickly as he could with his stick, leaving the marshal and Jelly with 'what now?' looks on their faces.

**With the arrival of Jelly** and Marshal Sammons, Teresa stirred herself into hostess mode, shepherding everyone into the dining room after telling Maria Elena to start serving... not to wait until the patrón had returned. Maria Elena rallied herself and soon had the three maids shuttling in platters of food and pots of coffee after making room for two more place settings. Vicente reappeared with the Espinozas, trailed by his wife Rosa who quickly intuited an extra pair of hands would be welcome in the kitchen. With the enormous cast iron griddle covering two eyes of the stove, a fried-egg production line went into high gear.

Teresa made what introductions were necessary, wishing Murdoch and Scott would hurry up and get their problem—whatever it was—sorted out and come to the table. Someone needed to go upstairs and check on the status of the invalids.

Uncertain footfalls at the foyer entrance to the dining room turned out to be Gabriel and Johnny. Someone... probably Maria Elena... had raided Murdoch's closet to provide Johnny with a blackthorn shillelagh, upon which he was leaning heavily while taking short, careful steps. Gabe hovered close by. More introductions were made. Teresa was getting frantic.

Knowing there were guests downstairs, Johnny had been determined to dress accordingly and not dishonor the house or his father... but the narrow-legged _calzoneras_ had refused to button over the bandaged thigh. The downside of preferring snug-fitting trousers was that he couldn't get into anything in his wardrobe. In desperation, he'd resorted to a traditional Mexican fiesta shirt with flowing poet sleeves—gleaming white cotton with pleats and intricate blue and green embroidery cascading down the front, worn untucked over wide-legged white cotton pants and sandals. The white accentuated his dark skin and the blue matched his eyes perfectly. He looked every inch a regal _hidalgo's_ son... as far from a rough-and-tough gunfighter as he possibly could get. And he knew it.

Johnny cautiously lowered himself into a chair opposite the man with the star badge on his vest. Their eyes locked, taking each other's measure as Teresa made the formal introduction. Outwardly, although difficult, Johnny was maintaining his usual air of bravado, though on the inside he felt nothing but defeat. It mattered not what he was wanted for _this_ time—there'd been so many transgressions, so many deaths... he'd quit counting years ago. And yes, there'd been episodes of drunken violence he couldn't quite remember the reasons for or the details of.

What _did_ matter was that a United States marshal was a guest in his father's house, which meant his father was taking the side of the law in whatever trouble Johnny Madrid had stepped in this time. Murdoch was going to allow him to be taken away, evidently when he was well enough to ride. Maybe that's why the old man had sat up in his room all night... to make sure he didn't escape. Maybe that's why Scott hadn't bothered to come in to see how he was doing, as he'd never failed to do in the past months whenever Johnny'd been hurt. Or why Teresa hadn't come bounding in this morning, to bounce on the end of the bed and try to cheer him up as she always did. Even Jelly stayed away. Perhaps whatever he'd done—what he couldn't remember—that had brought a high-ranking lawman down on his head was so awful that no one could excuse or accept it. Maybe... this time... even his family had given up on him. So Johnny did the only thing he could... he plastered a crooked smile on his face and politely requested the toast and butter be passed.

Although Eugene Sammons now understood this blue-eyed gunfighter was _not_ his quarry, it hadn't occurred to anyone to pass this information along to Johnny. As they tucked into a marvelous breakfast in this splendid dining room of a beautifully restored _hacienda_, the marshal's mind was on the young man upstairs. Mister Lancer had promised him he would be allowed to question Jody later today... or as soon as he'd recovered his senses. Sammons kept stealing glances across the table, as if to reassure himself that the young man in white really _wasn't_ the man he wanted.


	58. Chapter 58

_Chapter 58: _**RINGMASTER**

**Murdoch had found Scott** exactly where he'd expected... in Charlemagne's box stall, squatting on a three-legged stool with a bottle of liniment in one hand and a sullen set to his patrician features. The father's intent to take his son to task lost its momentum. It would have been the opportune moment for a leisurely father-son, air-clearing chat—had there been time. But there wasn't. Instead—setting aside his own stiff-necked pride—he appealed to Scott's finer nature, entreating him to preserve family face by returning to the house.

Scott finally agreed... but as he pointed out, he'd need to make himself presentable... and it appeared Murdoch had run afoul of an exploding tomato. They took the outside staircase to get to their rooms without being seen. When Scott mentioned in passing that he wasn't sure he'd be able to shave one-handed, having never had to do that before, Murdoch offered to help—an intimacy that had never presented itself before. Scott was rather surprised to find himself agreeing to it. Even more surprised to find that simple element of his father's touch was comforting.

That done, they retreated to their respective bedrooms to change, with Scott actually laughing when Murdoch offered to help him dress. No, he _could_ manage the buttons on his trousers by himself, thank you!

**Before heading downstairs,** Murdoch ducked his head through the partially door into Jody's room, where Doctor Sam was looking over his patient with Ron in attendance. Fingers of early morning sunlight streamed through the east-facing window from which the drapes had been pulled back. Jody sat propped up against an expanse of white-slipped pillows, white bandages swathing his chest and shoulder, and a white chenille coverlet pulled up to his bare waist... looking altogether too small, too dark and too alien... in fact, exactly as Johnny had done so many months earlier.

"How's he doing, Sam?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Murdoch approached the bed warily,

"Good morning, Jordan... er... Jody. Which do you prefer to be called?"

"Jody'll do." His tone was carefully neutral but Murdoch sensed an element of hostility that had been absent the night before.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough."

"How are you feeling?"

"Been better."

This was Murdoch's first clear, close-up view of his purported son... and he didn't bother trying to hide the fact that he was looking for identifiable features that would cement the claim. Jody didn't bother pretending he didn't know he was being examined like an insect under a microscope, maintaining unswerving eye contact with the older man.

"Still not sure, are you?"

Murdoch fought to keep his speech at the same level of casualness, but spoke frankly. "At first I wasn't... I admit that... but then I met someone who convinced me."

"Oh?" An eyebrow twitched in what might have been a spark of interest—but the boy refused to take the bait.

Murdoch shot a glance at Sam, who—he now recalled—probably hadn't heard much of the tale at this point. "I have to get back downstairs... they're holding breakfast for me and we're awash in guests. But as soon as I can cut loose I'll be back and we'll talk about it, okay?"

Jody grimaced as he shifted position. "Whatever."

Murdoch stiffened. "What do you mean, _'whatever'?_ Isn't that why you came? Talk to me, son. Help me understand what it is you want... what you need..."

The gold-green eyes finally looked away and Jody spoke in that buttery-soft voice that was so like Johnny's.

"I don't belong here. It was a mistake to come. I can see that now."

"I agree it was a mistake to arrive here incognito... and I'd like to know why you thought that approach necessary. As for whether or not you belong, that's yet to be determined, isn't it?"

"Already has been, seems like. I'm not wanted here... that wasn't too hard to figure out."

**Murdoch struggled to tamp down** a flare of irritation. Where did this kid get off, prejudging them so harshly? If he hadn't sneaked in like a thief in the night, there wouldn't have been all this confusion. He'd brought his current miseries down on himself. As for his precarious legal position... well, that, too, was his own doing... nothing to do with them.

Fortunately, Murdoch got control of his mouth before he voiced words that would doom any future relationship with this young man.

"The four of us have much to discuss, Jody, before you make that assumption. There's an awful lot of explaining to be done beforehand—on all sides. Unfortunately, you're not the only crisis I'm faced with this morning so, like I said, I'll be back. This afternoon or this evening we'll hold a family conference, if you're up to it..."

Sam stepped in. "Does my status as attending physician carry any weight in this house?" He wasn't being entirely facetious, Murdoch could tell.

"You know it does, Sam."

The doctor turned to the pharmacist's son, whom he'd known since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. "Aaron... you go on downstairs and get your breakfast. Say Mr. Lancer will be down in a minute or two and ask Miss Teresa to send up trays for Jody and myself, please."

To Murdoch, he said, "Come out into the hall with me for a moment."

They moved out to the gallery, just out of Jody's earshot.

"Understand you got some lawdogs downstairs after your two youngest..."

"No... just Jody... it was a mistake that John got involved... one of them's a federal marshal. He'll want to talk to Jody soonest..."

"Can you put him off another twenty-four hours?"

"I can try... but why? Isn't the boy out of danger now?"

"Yes... and no. Oh... he'll be up and around in a couple of days—sore, but on the mend. He's got a low-grade fever at present... probably from mild infection in the knife wound. Teresa did a terrific job getting the bullet out of his shoulder... she has a genuine calling, Murdo. I hope you can see your way clear to helping her fulfill that dream..."

"Yeah... well... we'll talk about that later..."

"Do you by any chance know what happened to Jody's hip?"

"Shot at close range by a man he was trying to kill..."

"Oh? A story for another day, I suppose. Whoever worked on it did a real butcher job."

"Doc... I have to get downstairs..." A note of desperation crept in... Scott had just wandered around a corner of the gallery, looking for him.

"All right then... I'll let you go... but in my estimation, your new son needs some mental recoup time before being submitted to interrogation... or any other psychological torment."

"I'll keep that in mind..." Murdoch promised, hurrying to join Scott.

**By the time father and son walked** into the dining room together and took their places, both had assumed bland expressions that deceived everyone present into believing nothing was wrong between them. Everyone except Teresa, that is. Scott was so down about _something_ he didn't even complain when she cut up his meat and buttered his toast for him.

Juan Sebastián and Margarita Guadalupe Espinoza were gawking about in wide-eyed awe. They'd lived on this _estancia_ their entire lives, as newlyweds had watched construction of the _hacienda_ itself—yet this was the first time they'd ever been inside further than the kitchen. They were slightly fuzzy on the matter of the actual number of sons in the _patrón's_ house... but who wasn't?

Toward the conclusion of the meal the _patrón_ announced that as a reward for their Good Samaritanism, he was sending the old couple on an all-expenses-paid holiday in style... in the ranch surrey, with two white mules and a driver. He would underwrite a week's lodging and meals in the best _posada_ Morro Coyo had to offer. Their donkey would be looked after until their return. Someone would be sent out to their little homestead to feed the cow, pigs, goats and chickens in their absence. _And... _he intended to compensate them for their entire load of _mezcal_ and _pulque!_

**The breakfast assemblage** broke up fairly quickly after that. Minus Rosa, who'd undertaken a grand tour of the _hacienda_ with the Espinozas, the other women cleaned up the dining room. Murdoch drew Teresa and the menfolk into the great room for a conference.

First order of business: Jelly was dispatched, along with Felipe, to round up the mules and the surrey. Felipe won the coin toss to see who would chauffeur the old couple to Morro Coyo and anyplace else they had a hankering to visit. He'd be staying in the _posada_ with them for the entire week, to fetch, carry and drive.

Doctor Jenkins had come downstairs. He needed to head back to town, check in with his family and the clinic. He'd be back either late that evening or the next day. Teresa had all his instructions for the two invalids. As designated driver, Miguel was dispensed to bring the doctor's horse and buggy around, with a saddled mule tied behind for the trip back.

When the marshal commented to Murdoch that he really needed to interview Jordan Lancer, Doctor Sam airily informed them that the boy was drugged to the eyeballs and would be incommunicado for hours—a blatant lie that bothered the good doctor's conscience not a whit. Also, he added, it would be helpful if Aaron Goldman stayed around for another few days rather than go back to camp. Best that Jody wake up to a familiar face. Sammons probably sensed he was being fobbed off yet again but chose not to make an issue of it.

Because after toying with his breakfast Scott had pleaded headache and uncharacteristically retreated to his room, Doc privately brought up to Murdoch one other matter: Was he aware that his number one son had difficulties beyond the dislocated shoulder? The blisters resulting from the running iron incident had been rubbed raw from being in the saddle all day yesterday. Also, a small abscess had formed where he'd been hooked in the arm. It had been lanced and disinfected. Fortunately, it was on the same arm he already wasn't using. But, he needed a week of non-saddle contact.

"So, Murdoch... don't ask him to do anything that's going to exacerbate his injuries... because he _will_ try to do it and that'll make his frustration all the worse. I don't understand what's going on between the two of you, but my advice is _fix it._ Fix it fast!"

Vicente, in the meantime, had been busy loading the supply wagon as Teresa ticked off items that had been requisitioned. Ronnie had volunteered to help. Vicente was going to drive it back to camp himself.

The portico outside the kitchen entrance resembled a stage depot. The mule-drawn surrey was pulled up behind the wagon and the elderly Espinozas being handed up with great ceremony. Behind that, a phlegmatic black Morgan gelding stood between the shafts of the buggy as Doctor Jenkins climbed aboard. Miguel stowed the doctor's gear in the boot along with wooden boxes of produce and eggs and a few bottles of Cochie's excellent wine.

Saddled horses were brought around for Jelly, Gabriel McClanahan, Marshal Sammons and Murdoch—although the latter wasn't at all sure how much saddle time he could tolerate. The marshal's objective was the telegraph office in Morro Coyo. Aaron Goldman was to stay behind and man the fort, so to speak. The plan was that they would all convoy the first six miles out to the junction of the private drive and Yokut Trace. There, depending on whatever signs Gabe could decipher, the search party would either continue south with the surrey and the buggy, or turn north with the supply wagon.

Murdoch looked askance as a buckboard with three more individuals joined the party—Agosto Martinez, his younger sister Tomasina and their aged grandfather, a retired butcher—equipped with coils of rope, assorted buckets, piles of waxed canvas and a fearsome array of knives, hooks and saws. What was this? Vicente reminded him of the obstruction at the northern end of the Fatman's Squeeze—the dead horse that would have to be dragged out of the way and butchered. Nothing was ever wasted on the ranch—even if the meat was inedible for humans, it could be jerked to provide trap bait and food for their cadre of dogs, the hide and hair would be useful in many applications and the carcass rendered to produce bloodmeal and bonemeal to spread in vegetable gardens.

In the meantime Maria Elena, Teresa and the three maids had been darting to and fro with last-minute messages and packages going both north and south. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, promising a hot day.

At last everyone who was going changed into riding attire, canteens filled, and ready-to-eat trail vittles prepared and distributed. The expedition was ready to roll, Murdoch was beginning to feel like the ringmaster in his very own circus.


	59. Chapter 59

_Chapter 59: _**SET UP AND SANDBAGGED**

**Leaning heavily on the blackthorn,** Johnny eased away unnoticed from the hubbub, slipping out a side door to one of his favorite outdoor spaces around the _hacienda_—the interior courtyard. The young ex-gunfighter had a secret passion for private, peaceful places—for beauty and elegance in the graceful arches and marble columns of the colonnade enclosing the flagstone-floored courtyard, the calming scents of exotic blooms, the sussurus of fronds in the imported fan palms, the soothing splash of water spilling over the multiple tiers of the blue glazed-tiled fountain... all aspects of gracious living that had been denied him as a child. Here he felt _safe_. Sinking gratefully onto a cushioned wicker lounge chair, he tilted his face to the sun and tried to clear his mind of the inevitable unpleasantness to come—too tired in body and spirit to run any more.

**Scott's bedroom, positioned as it was** at the northeast corner of the house, afforded through tall windows a superb view of the Sierra Nevadas at sunrise. The balcony on the other side of the French doors gave onto a vista of Oak Ridge directly to the north and spectacular sunsets over the western coastal mountain range. Scott was sitting in an easy chair near the open doors to the balcony with feet propped up on an ottoman and ears attuned to the activity going on below, unable to concentrate on the book lying open in his lap. He'd left the table before today's plans were fully formulated. Now he wanted to know where everyone was going and why... not that he'd be able to participate, with this damned sore shoulder... and, frankly, the other problem was resting a lot easier on a chair cushion than a saddle.

Scott knew he'd made his father unhappy this morning, but where was it written he always had to be the one to surrender his own wants and needs to another's benefit? Scott was also well aware that his current predicament was entirely his own fault for allowing a momentary lapse of judgment to override common sense. Impulsiveness and rash behavior were Johnny's forté... not his.

In the hour since he'd come upstairs, reason was starting to reassert itself in Scott's mind. He was beginning to comprehend that all of this unpleasantness was more a series of unfortunate events than a malicious disturbance on the part of a single individual. Undeniably, plain old garden-variety curiosity was also taking hold. He wanted to know more about the new kid in the dorm... but he wasn't going to find out anything by holing up in his bedroom.

Scott got up and opened the door to the gallery. Through the louvered glass he spotted Johnny ensconced in a chaise longue below, where the morning sun was just now penetrating the depths of the courtyard. Johnny didn't know what had happened at camp the prior morning... just as Scott had no idea what had occurred out on the Yakut Trace in the afternoon. Therefore, it seemed logical they should put their heads together and exchange information. Too, Scott wanted a handle on his brother's feelings about this outsider.

Checking to see if the coast was clear, Scott padded along the gallery to the staircase and took the long way around, avoiding the kitchen, to one of the other doors accessing the courtyard.

**Leaving the kitchen portico,** the cavalcade of vehicles and riders had fallen into line following the drive around to the front of the _hacienda_ and through stately riveroaks toward the the stuccoed walls of the inner compound. From his second-storey vantage point at the open bedroom window, Jody'd watched as children ran ahead to open the first set of wrought iron gates, then the second set barring the outer enclosure of conventional post-and-rail fencing. Clad only in the drawstring cotton pants, he'd freed his right arm from its sling and was cautiously working the muscles of his arm and shoulder, even though it hurt, to relieve the tightness that had set in.

For the first time since he'd awakened, Jody was alone in the room. The constant hum of voices rising and falling from belowstairs had ceased, as well as the normal sounds of a household getting underway for the day. An unnatural hush had settled over the _hacienda_ and he stifled a yawn although he'd slept well, considering.

The doctor had seemed pleased with Jody's recovery, at any rate, and had told him he could get up and move around around the room a little if he felt like it, except he did entreat his patient to be mindful of any dizziness. There hadn't been any, so far. As a minder, Ron had been skillfully unobtrusive, offering assistance when needed but otherwise not hovering like a gnat or trying to be entertaining. The doctor had mildly encouraged Jody to eat more than he had of breakfast—the remnants were still on a tray on the bureau. Before leaving he'd mentioned that the girl Teresa would be up later to change the dressing on his shoulder.

The brief encounter with Murdoch had been unsettling. Jody now wished he hadn't said anything at all as he'd obviously upset the old man. He wasn't looking forward to being the chief suspect at a family interrogation. He wondered where those two lawmen were and why they hadn't yet come forth. He was idly curious as to where his 'brothers' were and what they were doing. And where was that nurse?

**Even as that last thought **flittered away he heard, through the open door, light footsteps approaching on the terra cotta-tiled floor of the gallery. A light tap against the door and a drift of lemon verbena announced the visitor's identity. Jody turned to face Teresa.

The girl wore a long navy blue skirt and a crisp white blouse with sleeves rolled up, heavy brunette mane held back by tortoiseshell combs. Her smile was a thin one in a tired face. She was carrying a white enameled basin with a spritely hand-painted floral design and a matching pitcher, which she set down on the other end of the bureau.

"Good morning, Jody. You're looking much better. But you're supposed to be in bed." She tsked disapprovingly.

"Where were all those people going?"

"We've managed to mislay a couple of guests and one of our ranch youngsters... the men've gone off looking for them."

Teresa moved a straight back chair from a corner to a spot next to the bureau. She removed items from the basin and set them to the side, then refilled it with warm water from the pitcher. She indicated he was to sit straddling the chair with his shoulder to the window for the light. When she had him positioned to her liking, with his left arm across the chair back cradling his head and his right arm relaxed, she started unpinning the outer bandage.

Teresa's hands and deft fingers were soft and cool. She worked quickly, murmuring her satisfaction at finding no blood seepage through to the outer layers. The inner gauze pad stuck a little here and there and she took her time sponging it free. Jody, too, took his time... waiting for her to speak.

"You're very lucky... this could have been a lot worse."

"Being shot's lucky?"

"I meant... the wound could have been a lot worse... when I got the bullet out, Scott said it was a minié ball... like they used in the war. He said they usually do a lot more damage so it must have been nearly spent when it hit..."

"You... took it out?" Jody jerked his head up and around to stare at her.

"I did, yes. Doctor Jenkins couldn't do it... he walked me through it. Hold still, please..."

"Scott... was there?"

"Uhuh... someone had to mop the blood out of the way... put your head down... this might sting a bit..." Teresa was daubing alcohol over the site and patting it dry.

"I... ow!"

"Sorry about that... want to be sure it stays nice and clean. Doc says the stitches can probably come out in a week. The ones in your arm, too. I had to redo those... you'd pulled too many loose and it got a little infected. Thank goodness we caught it before it went septic. But you're going to have to be more careful."

"Yeah... I'm one lucky bastard all right," Jody muttered.

"Stand up so I can wind the bandage around... lift your arms up."

Satisfied there was enough bandage around chest and shoulder to hold the gauze pad in place, Teresa anchored it with safety pins and told him to sit down so she could take a look at his arm. Removing a vase of flowers from a small pie table nearby, she scooted it over so Jody could brace his arm on it, then fetched another straightback chair for herself. The wound had been lightly wrapped in gauze and a pinkish yellow stain was starting to show through. Unwrapping revealed that while the upper end of the long diagonal cut looked to be drying out, the lower portion crossing the wrist was oozing serous fluid and beads of blood around the stitches.

"Oh dear," Teresa commented, making a face.

"What 'oh dear'?" Jody asked. "Is it worse?"

"Not that much... the problem seems to be tension on the stitches whenever you flex your wrist... let me think about that for a moment... while I'm cleaning it."

The alcohol really stung this time. Jody clenched his teeth.

"Sit right here and let that dry for a minute... I'll be right back... do not move!"

"Yes m'am!"

**Teresa returned with cotton batting,** a ball of twine, more linen strips and three wooden paddles or battens approximately twelve inches long by an inch and a half wide, which she laid side by side on the pie table.

"What's all this for?"

"You'll see... I have an idea how to immobilize that wrist."

Jody picked up one of the paddles and turned it over curiously. It was lighter than wood and slightly flexible, with a polished finish and tiny intricate designs incised into it... ivory? The other two were similar but with distinctly different patterns.

"I should know what these are... they look familiar..."

"They should... if your mama ever wore whalebone corsets... they're scrimshawed baleen corset busks."

Teresa fastened the three pieces together side by side with twine, forming a triptych, and folded a length of batting on top. "Lay your arm across there." Taking a length of linen, she bound one end of the assemblage just below his elbow. The palm of his hand cupped the other end. That, too, was securely wrapped and fastened. He could flex his fingers and thumb but the wrist was held inflexibly in position.

"How long do I have to wear this?"

"As long as it takes."

"It's uncomfortable."

"Too bad."

"Are you always this bossy?"

"Are you always this grumpy?"

"Only when people are trying to kill me."

"No one wants to kill you, Jody. They want to help you..."

"Oh yeah? Murdoch brings the law down on me... someone shoots me... Johnny runs me down, he and Scott both beat me up... and now I'm reduced to wearing your underwear."

"Nobody has to know. And it was my mother's, not mine. I don't wear corsets... ever."

"Teresa... did anyone ever tell you there's such a thing as too much information?"

"Quite often, as a matter of fact. Every time I ask a question, someone says 'a girl doesn't need to know that' or 'you're too young'. But when they need me to dig a bullet out of someone's leg, all of a sudden I'm grown enough!"

"Sorry I mentioned it."

"Would you like to try going downstairs for a while... while it's quiet?"

"Like this? Half-dressed?"

"I've brought you one of Murdoch's old shirts... then I want your arm back in the sling."

"Sure. I guess so... um... just where _are_ Scott and Johnny? Did they go with the searchers?"

"Oh... they're around here somewhere. Why? Are you afraid of them?"

"Well... yeah. Wouldn't you be? I'm not up to defending myself this morning."

"They didn't go. Scott had a dislocated shoulder and Johnny was shot in the leg... didn't you know?"

"No... no, I didn't."

"Not to worry... I'll protect you."

**Jody stood quietly** as Teresa did up the buttons on the oversized shirt and fastened his arm in the sling. There was too much shirttail leftover to be easily tucked in, so it was just left loose.

Jody noticed that his nurse was barefoot. "Do I need shoes?"

"No. The floors are clean enough and we're not going outside, exactly. Hang on... your hair wants combing."

Teresa picked up a comb from the bureau and reached up to take care of that. Jody bent his head obligingly. He wasn't that tall, for a man, but still a good three or four inches taller than her five-foot two.

All the time she'd been working, Teresa had been formulating theories. First and foremost was that this person had a woman, or women, who looked after him on a regular basis. His easy submission to her ministrations and lack of response to her touch indicated someone accustomed to physical contact with a female, as opposed to the three males with whom she lived. Outside of taking her arm while walking in public, traditionally a gentleman's responsibility, all three treated her differently.

Murdoch occasionally hugged her, or patted her on the arm, back or head... but always maintained a seemly awareness that they were not blood kin. Teresa knew she was neither Scott's nor Johnny's 'type'. Johnny's flirtatiousness was restrained, as if acknowledging she occupied a social level out of his experience or reach. Scott was the opposite, unconsciously exuding an aura of cultural superiority—as if she were an under-assistant kitchen skivvy. She knew he couldn't help that... it was the way he'd been raised. And he'd be appalled if he knew that was the image he projected.

Too, Teresa had noticed the indentation on Jody's ring finger where a ring used to be... but now wasn't.

The staircase landing was around the corner of the gallery from Jody's bedroom. Teresa pointed out which bedrooms belonged to whom. Two of the maids—Nereida and Ivelisse—were upstairs making beds, dusting and gathering laundry as they passed. Teresa had to change sides so that Jody could grip the rail as they descended one step at a time.

"So now you'll have two nice new scars to add to your collection," Teresa commented lightly. "Not as impressive, of course, as the ones on your back... or hip..."

"Saw that, did you?"

"I did... but you needn't panic... that's all I saw."

They reached the bottom of the staircase and turned left into the greatroom.

"Three steps down," Teresa warned. "Careful!"

For all its enormity, the room had a welcoming atmosphere with casual arrangements of comfortable and well-worn furniture near the fireplace. An exquisitely carved refectory table with matching chairs—serving as an intimate dining venue or sturdy work surface—fronted an expansive library occupying an entire wall. A massive desk of the same workmanship dominated a corner of the room. It was interesting that the big man chose this room as his work space, rather than closeting himself in a private study as men of means tended to do—usually in order to maintain distance from their women and children. Jody could see the appeal of working at a desk with such a magnificent view through arched plate glass windows.

Double doors at the far end of the greatroom opened into an even bigger chamber with a high tray ceiling from which depended an elaborate crystal chandelier. Other than the sideboards under three masterful oil landscapes, rows of armless cushioned chairs against the walls and a baby grand piano shoved in a corner, it was devoid of furnishings. This was a corner room with banks of French doors on two sides opening onto an L-shaped covered patio. An attached porte-cochère was accessed by a gated circle drive coming off the main drive. Beyond the patio was a well-maintained rose garden with almond and dwarf citrus trees in jardinieres, pebbled walkways, wooden benches and a fountain arising out of an irregularly-shaped koi pond. The whole was enclosed with a high stucco wall.

"This is the grand salon... the only time it's used is when we hold _bailes_ for our workers and their families and friends. Or for other festivities... the last time was in December... all four of our birthdays are in December—isn't that a coincidence? So we had a great big combination birthday and Christmas party... it was wonderful... we had an enormous tree and... listen to me! Rattling on when you probably have questions. I don't suppose your birthday's in December, too?"

"No."

On the other side of the salon a wide door opened to a paneled hallway, which Jody reckoned must parallel the foyer, hall and dining room on the other side of the courtyard. Doors marching down either side opened to a cloakroom, closets and five spacious bedsits—for a lady's maid, a valet, a housekeeper, a head cook and a nanny... when there used to be such entities. A sixth room contained an infant's nursery.

Jody expected to go on through the next set of double doors at the end of the hall but Teresa pivoted and headed toward a narrower one in the middle of the corridor, still holding on to his arm.

"What's back there?"

"The master bedroom suite. Murdoch has the only key. He locked it up the day Maria... Johnny's mother... ran away and no one's been allowed to touch anything in there in twenty-one years. It's exactly as she left it... bed unmade, her clothes strewn about... jewelry spilling out of boxes."

"How would you know what's in there, if no one's been in since before you were born?"

Teresa gave him a sideways grin. "Oh... I didn't say no one's been _in_ it... just that we're very careful not to move anything when we _do_ go in... he keeps the key in his jewelry box upstairs."

"Why do you go in, then?"

"We do a little dusting and put down poison for the mice and naphthalene for the moths."

"That's kind of morbid, don't you think?"

"That's the general idea... to kill the critters."

"You know what I mean. Does Johnny know about this room?"

Teresa bit her lip. "No. He was told it's just storage for unused furniture."

She opened the narrow door to an equally narrow, completely featureless corridor with another door at the far end. "Servants' passage between the kitchen and the master suite," she explained. Halfway down the passage were wide double doors, locked and barred.

"These are opened whenever the gardeners need to bring plants and equipment into the courtyard from the outside."

Maria Elena was at the stove and gave them a surprised, troubled look as they entered the kitchen.

"Ah, Danito! You are well? You want eat? You no eat breakfast!"

"No, m'am. I don't need anything."

The tour moved on to the mudroom, the bathroom, the dining room and back to the foyer. Behind the staircase were glass doors opening onto the interior courtyard. Teresa wasn't a great believer in the efficacy of prayer, but she sent a small one skyward nonetheless, opening a door and leading her companion outside. Their view of the courtyard was momentarily obstructed by a potted palm around which they had to step.

Jody stopped in dismay when he saw what... or rather, _who_... awaited them out there—Johnny and Scott deployed on chaise longues. They both looked up at him—Scott with displeasure written all over his face. Johnny's face merely enigmatic.

Teresa smiled beatifically. "How fortuitous... finding both of you right here! I'm sure you won't mind if we join you..."

Scott started to come up.

"Stay where you are!" she commanded, pulling Jody forward and pretty much forcing him down into a third, unoccupied lounge chair before taking a wicker armchair for herself.

"Lovely morning for a chat, isn't it?"

Jody cast her a long, accusing, mournful look. "You set us up!"


	60. Chapter 60

_Chapter 60: _**A CAPTIVE AUDIENCE**

**"****I can't begin to understand **Murdoch's reasoning behind keeping Jody's existence a secret. Nor do I know why Jody himself thought it necessary to disguise his identity. What I _do_ know is that this fighting has to stop... right here, right now. It's time you were properly introduced and I'm here to make that happen. Any questions?"

"How can Murdoch be positive this kid's his?" Scott drawled contemptuously.

"If he believes so, that's good enough for me," Teresa retorted. "How can _any_ man be absolutely positively sure, beyond a shadow of doubt, that any one child is his... do you understand what I'm saying? Unless that child grows up to favor him. You, for instance, don't look anything at all like Murdoch... neither does Johnny for that matter. What do you say to _that?_"

"I _know_ who I am!" Scott flung back, stung.

"What about you, Johnny... are you certain you know who you are?"

"Well... yeah... sure... my mama... she, ah... told me..." Johnny stammered. He'd never had the subject of his parentage put to him quite this way.

"Oh... she _told_ you. And that's good enough?"

"Don't talk about my mama like she was some... they were _married!_"

"Of course they were—right here in the _hacienda_, in the grand salon. My father stood up for Murdoch. It was a full formal wedding with all the bells, whistles and rice... he loved her. _But._.. she was already pregnant with you."

"Who told you that?"

"Maria Elena... she was here at the time. She can count, you know. So can everyone else who attended."

Scott jumped back in, nodding at Jody. "Murdoch didn't bother making an honest woman of _his_ mother, though."

Johnny cut his eyes at Scott, with a dangerous edge to his voice. "Are you sayin', brother, there ain't no difference between a bastard and a almost-bastard?"

"Don't even go there!" Teresa warned.

Scott persisted. "Murdoch didn't even know he had another son until just a few weeks ago—so he _says._ He doesn't know him now."

Jody spoke up then, his voice light. "I didn't know he was my father until six months ago... when I found out my name was Lancer, not Montero. So we've started off even, he and I—neither one of us knowing where to go from here."

"It seems _you_ do... since you _are_ here. What do you hope to gain? Money... part of this ranch... what?"

Jody shook his head. "I don't need your money or your land."

"Is that a fact?" Scott's tone was scornful. "What _do_ you want, then?"

"A sense of identity, for one thing... for myself, for my son. To know who my people are. That's all..."

In the heat of argument, the reference to a third generation went entirely unnoticed.

"BOYS!" Teresa smacked a hand on the chair arm for attention... and got it. Within the confines of the courtyard, the sharply barked word echoed off the walls. She sat bolt upright with her hands clasped tightly in her lap and spots of high color on her cheeks.

"The four of us are going to have a conversation. We are going to get to know our new brother and give him an opportunity to ask questions of us as well. And we're going to do that with all the common courtesy and good manners Murdoch expects to be displayed under his roof... or that Harlan Garrett would insist on in his drawing room back in Boston. Is that understood?"

"You're not in the classroom now, girl," Scott growled. "You can't tell us what to do!"

"I shouldn't have to. As Jody's the guest in this house, it would be polite to let him go first... tell us a little about himself and how he came to be here. I'm sure you and John can manage to act civilized if you put your minds to it."

Scott finally grunted his assent, knowing she was right. Neither his father nor his grandfather would tolerate bad behavior on his part toward a guest, no matter how justified his hostility might be toward that person.

Johnny nodded once, his face inscrutable. At the moment he was more curious than upset where this potential additional sibling was concerned... and highly amused that, for once, _he_ wasn't the one being subjected to a lecture on objectionable behavior!

Jody just looked resigned.

"Go ahead..." Teresa encouraged. "Pretend you're the new kid in class... give us the condensed version."

**"****My name's Jordan Marín Montero... **everyone calls me 'Jody' for short. Born in Los Angeles nineteen years ago, raised in Chula Vista on a rancho much like this one until I was ten. There were problems at home and I was sent away to school until I was sixteen. Since then I've been in college... or was, anyway."

Scott opened his mouth to say something. Teresa gave him the stink eye. He closed it again.

"Until I was old enough to understand differently, I thought my stepfather was my real father. When I figured out he wasn't, I started asking my mother but she wouldn't ever tell me. Six months ago, she fell ill. Just before she died she finally told me the name of my father. She admitted that he'd never known about me although I'm entered on the parish register as 'Lancer'.' Legally, I'm not Montero at all... Ed Montero never adopted me."

Johnny held up a hand, like one of Teresa's students. She allowed the interruption.

"Would that be Eduardo Montero, the one breeds palominos down in Chula Vista?"

"That would be him, yes. You know him?"

"Yeah, I know him. Piece a work, that one."

Scott took advantage of the pause that followed. "That's it? That's all? Why couldn't you just knock on the door and say 'hello, I'm Murdoch Lancer's love child and...' "

Teresa was quick to squelch. "You can shut up right now, Scott Lancer... and quit being such a self-righteous prick!"

Scott's mouth hung open... he'd never heard his surrogate sister curse and was shocked she even knew such a word.

"I overheard the conversation between the Pinkerton agent and Murdoch the evening he delivered his last report. They'd been staking you out for weeks, waiting for the right time to approach you. You were flitting around Boston like a butterfly, visiting a different flower every night. You were accosted in the wee hours of the morning after leaping from the second-floor balcony of some young lady's boudoir with her furious father beating down the door. Evidently this was your main hobby back then... there's no telling how many little Scotties might be trotting around Beantown these days... so you have no right to come over all pious and sanctimonious!"

Johnny was laughing out loud. "That true, brother? I woulda never took you for a man of loose morals!"

He didn't laugh long.

Teresa swiveled her vocal guns on him and launched a new volley. "As for you, John Lancer... your reputation with the pistol is exceeded only by your renown with the cannon." Her words dripped scorn. "If the news coming out of Morro Coyo and all the other whorehouses in the valley is to be held as gospel, there could be Madrid juniors under every cabbage leaf! Mexico and west Texas must be positively swarming with tiny Juans and Juanitas."

Both brothers were blushing and Scott protested. "Now wait a minute..."

"No... you wait a minute. I'm not done yet!"

Scott and Johnny traded looks of alarm. This wasn't the sweet-natured, mild-mannered Teresa _they_ knew... but each was remembering the time, not even a year ago, when the two of them—newly introduced to each other and not yet established in their relationship—had been scrapping. Teresa hadn't hesitated then to throw herself between them... or to challenge Johnny over his erroneous understanding of how he and his mother had quit the ranch. She hadn't been timid about stating her case then... and she certainly wasn't now.

"Jody has every right to want to get to know his father. It's not his fault Murdoch and his mother didn't marry... for whatever reason. You can't blame him for just being alive. And another thing, surely you're not so stupid as to believe your father's been celibate for over twenty years. There've been other women from time to time. There might even be other illegitimate children we just don't know about yet. Maybe some day medical science will come up with a guaranteed contraceptive, but until it does there are going to be mistakes. Murdoch's a good man... a kind, caring, honest man. Now that he knows about Jody, he feels responsible. He wants to do the right thing even though he may not know yet what that right thing should be. You shouldn't blame him for that. If only all fathers would feel that way about their children... legitimate or otherwise!"

"Are you done?" Scott asked cautiously. Johnny had a hand over his mouth, desperately trying to stifle laughter. Even Jody was finding it difficult to keep a straight face.

**Teresa took several deep breaths** to recover her equilibrium and sat back in her chair, folding her hands together in her chair.

"I'm done. Please carry on with your question, Scott."

"I... uh... I seem to have forgotten what it was."

"You were askin' why Jody didn't say right off who he was..." Johnny supplied helpfully.

"Oh... right. So why didn't you?" Scott asked again.

"I needed to know what kind of people you were first... that you weren't like... my stepfather."

Johnny's face had taken on a thoughtful expression—Jody'd had him at 'stepfather.' His mother had never formally remarried, as she'd been still legally affiliated with Murdoch Lancer... but she'd had a number of live-in lovers over the years. Many of them assumed their duty as _de facto_ stepfather included disciplining her unruly son. 'Discipline' in Johnny's mind equated to being beaten. A number of puzzle pieces clicked into place.

"This stepfather..." Johnny ventured, "you and him get along?"

"No."

"He the one lay them stripes on your back?"

"Yes."

"He have somethin' to do with that game leg, too."

Jody hesitated before answering quietly. "Yeah."

"I'm just guessin' here... but I'm thinkin' this all has somethin' to do with that federal marshal. It ain't me he's after... it's you."

"I'm afraid so."

"You did somethin' to that old man... and now you're on the run... what you didn't wanna tell me about, right after I hired you."

Jody gave him a rueful grin. "That's right. You asked me if trouble was going to follow me here and I said no. Obviously I was wrong about that, so I guess you'll have to fire me now."

Johnny shook his head. "Oh, I could fire a wrangler all right... problem is, how do I fire a brother?"

Teresa intervened. "Let's not talk about... whatever Jody's done, or what consequences might arise from it... we'll all find out soon enough when Murdoch gets back and we'll deal with it then."

Inés glided out onto the patio, hands folded demurely under her apron. It was noticeably warmer now that the sun had climbed high enough in the sky that wall shadows had retreated. Maria Elena wanted to know if they'd enjoy refreshments... coffee or perhaps a pitcher of iced sangria? Sangria sounded wonderful, they all agreed. Inés gave an abbreviated bow, smiling, and soundlessly slid away.

Scott had been silent during this exchange, but now he spoke up in a much more agreeable tone.

"It's obvious we've all been laboring under numerous miscomprehensions. Yesterday was an exceptionally confusing day. Perhaps it would be helpful if I tell what happened that morning in camp... insofar as what I observed. Johnny can explain what happened out on the road in the afternoon. Then Jody can connect the events for us, as he was at the center of the action in both instances."

"That's a splendid idea, Scott," Teresa said, beaming. "Now we're getting somewhere... why don't you begin with how you managed to scorch your behind with a branding iron..."

**As Scott embarked on an accounting** of how his day had started out, Teresa went limp with relief. Throwing the three together had been a calculated risk—one that was paying off ever so much better than she'd dared hope. She'd got them talking—laughing, even—instead of going for one another's throats. Their various injuries didn't seem to be troubling them too much at the moment and the general atmosphere no longer teemed with animosity. All the while, though, Teresa was keeping a watchful eye on her two gunshot patients. Doc Sam _had_ said it was all right for them to get out of bed and move around as long as they didn't overtax themselves in the process. As long as they kept to the lounge chairs, she figured they couldn't get into too much trouble.

Things would change and there'd be other problems aplenty once Murdoch and the other men returned... depending on what news they brought. But right now Scott was enthralling the other two with a self-deprecating, extremely funny rendition of his close encounters with elusive calves, offended gonads and hot metal objects. She had no idea the usually reserved and often aloof Scott could be such an accomplished storyteller.

Scott was concluding with Jody's daring escape from the hilltop when Inés marched out to expertly snap a snowy lace cloth over a round service table in the shade of the gallery overhang. Behind her came Nereida and Ivelisse with small folding tables to place beside the lounge chairs, each with its own miniature lace cover and a folded linen napkin. Disappearing back inside, they reappeared moments later, processing solemnly behind Maria Elena and bearing not one but two pitchers of fruity sangria, crystal goblets, plates, cutlery, a tin bucket of chipped ice and trays of mid-morning snacks. From the deep ruby red of the beverage, Teresa deduced there was a rather higher proportion of red wine to fruit juice.

Maria Elena caught Teresa's eye and winked as she wafted by, falling easily into a role somewhere between charge nurse and _maître d'_. Teresa bit her lip, not daring to laugh. She knew exactly what the older woman was up to! Nothing like an attractive, attentive, sweet-smelling, smiling young girl to distract an ill or injured man from his woes. Plying them with food and wine would further insure they'd stay out of mischief!

The three young maids' shorter than normal full skirts afforded more than just a tantalizing glimpse of well-turned ankle. Their off-the-shoulder embroidered _puebla_ blouses displayed lavish amounts of caramel-cream cleavage and were just sheer enough to raise the blood pressure of any male with a heartbeat. Each immediately attached herself to a brother (by assignment, Teresa suspected).

Inés, the eldest at nineteen, had her hair pulled back in a sleek double knot that emphasized her slender neck and high cheekbones. Scott was her choice. Eighteen-year-old Nereida's hair had been allowed to dry while plaited so that now, combed out, it fell in wavy sheets to her waist. (Good luck keeping that out of the food, Teresa was thinking.) It was wavily sheeting all over Johnny at the moment. The youngest at seventeen, Ivelisse had naturally curly hair that floated around her elfin face in a cloud of ringlets. Jody was the recipient of her attentions.

A side benefit was that Teresa could leave her little flock alone long enough to take care of an urgent personal problem. She made a beeline for the nearest necessary—the downstairs lavatory. And not a minute too soon—her eyeballs had been floating for the past thirty minutes!

As a much relieved Teresa exited the lav, she was startled to find Ronnie Goldman lurking morosely in the kitchen. Good grief! She'd entirely forgotten he'd stayed behind to look after Jody... the poor boy'd been left on his own, neglected, for hours! At the same moment she was assailed by a flash of pure female competitiveness.

"Ronnie... could you do me a favor?"

"Sure, Miss O'Brian."

"Wait for me here while I run upstairs and change clothes?"

"Uh... okay..."

"I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail!"


	61. Chapter 61

_Chapter 61: _**SANGRIA AND SIESTA**

**The impromptu ****_fête_**** was in full swing** when Teresa O'Brian stepped around the potted palm on the arm of Aaron Goldman. Conversation stopped.

Teresa had her own calf-length ruffled skirt and _puebla_ blouse—every bit as sheer and _décolleté_ as the Mexican girls'. True, she wasn't as curvy of hip or tiny of waist as Maria Elena's three sirens, and certainly nowhere near as busty, but she held her own in the eye-candy department and knew it. She'd also removed the combs from her hair so that it hung long and lustrous about her shoulders. Altogether a look Murdoch wouldn't approve of—in fact, he'd probably hyperventilate and break out in hives. While the maids resumed their attentions to the brothers, Teresa lavished hers on an extremely embarrassed Ronnie, although he endured it with good grace.

On the Lancer ranch, observance of _siesta_ varied with the seasons—in cooler weather generally from one to two o'clock, and in the hottest months from two to four or even five o'clock. On this day around two o'clock, Maria Elena surreptitiously signaled to her girls that it was time to start winding down the festive luncheon. By then each of the men had made their own visits to the necessary and returned to chaises that had been rolled into the shade.

Reestablishing herself as group monitor, Teresa slid the sleeves of her blouse back above her shoulders and yanked the neckline back up to a respectable level. Aaron was invited to hang around and hear the other portions of the prior day's events. He already knew what had happened in the morning, of course, since he'd been there.

So now it was Johnny's turn. He turned out to be equally entertaining as he described his aborted getaway. His being shot in the leg wasn't any funnier than Jody's being shot in the shoulder, and the demise of poor old Bullet was lamentable... but his description of the head-on collision in the middle of nowhere and the resultant hand-to-hand combat did bring chuckles.

"There we was—both of us stove up, covered in dirt, blood and horseshit—tryin' to duke it out... he'd poke me and a minute later I'd say 'ow', then I'd slap him and two minutes later he'd say 'ouch'. Poor ole Mister and Missus Espinoza musta laughed 'til they peed theirselves."

Johnny continued. "I sure don't remember drinkin' all that _pulque_... and I sure wished I hadn't of. Don't remember bein' on that cart, either. 'Cept when Scott was stompin' all over me tryin' to pinch Jody's head off. If that mule hadn't a took off when it did, I reckon he woulda got the job done. Jody, you remember much?"

"Nope... only about as much as you do. I think I remember talking to Teresa... and maybe later to Murdoch, but I'm not sure. It's kinda like it happened in a dream."

"Exactly!" Johnny whooped. "Like one a them magic lantern shows where you see a whole buncha scenes but they ain't connected. Scott... what do you remember about last night? I'm kinda hazy on it..."

"I was doing fine until I lost my temper and jumped on the cart. And then we all fell out... that is... I fell out and the rest of you landed on top of me. After that I was in a world of hurt... well, until later... when I was helping Teresa get bullets out of both of you."

"I woulda liked to a seen that," Johnny mused.

"No... you wouldn't... trust me. I was about to throw up the whole time," Scott admitted.

"You were? Why didn't you say something?" Teresa exclaimed. "I'd have got someone else to help."

Scott shook his head. "I screwed up... I admit that. I'm proud of you, little sister. You did good last night! If you really want to become a doctor, you've got _my_ support!"

"Why, thank you, Scott. I appreciate that... and yes, I really do."

There was a long contemplative silence before Teresa spoke.

**"****So now we all understand**—more or less—how this mess came about. I suppose the next step is to decide what we're going to do about it."

"Aside from me going to jail..." Jody put in.

"There is that," Teresa agreed, "but do try to think positive... maybe it won't come to that. Murdoch is influential—he has contacts... he's a personal friend of the governor..."

"Depends on the offense, darlin'," Johnny said gently, but locking eyes with Jody. "When a telegram includes the words 'armed and dangerous', that usually means a felony's been committed... like armed robbery—or murder. They don't send out a federal marshal for stealin' watermelons..."

"That reminds me," Scott said. "About those telegrams... you could be in real trouble, Teresa. Interfering with telegrams is just as much a crime as tampering with the United States mail..."

"They'll have to prove it!"

"Oh come on! Sammons was going to the Western Union office in Morro Coyo to check with his office. Almost certainly George Quinn or Speck Johnson are going to mention those two urgent telegrams that never got delivered to Murdoch. It won't take the marshal long to connect the dots... that someone knew beforehand he had a warrant for 'JMLancer.' And there were too many witnesses up at camp when Jelly got there and hauled out your handwritten copies."

"Scott... you coulda gone all day 'thout bringin' that up," Johnny complained. "Ain't she got enough to worry about already? An' if she hadn'ta opened 'em, I'd most likely be the one on my way to the hoosegow."

"Most likely you wouldn't have that hole in your leg," Scott pointed out, "and that incident on the road wouldn't have happened, either. Charlemagne would've brought Jody straight back to the house."

"What's done is done," Teresa snapped. "What's important now is that we rally around our new brother and stand together as a family... that is, if you're now inclined to accept Jody as one of us. I know I am!"

"Count me in," Johnny drawled.

Scott was reclining in the chaise opposite Jody's. For an agonizing minute it appeared he was going to protest. Then he started grinning. "As Alexander Dumas said, _'tous pour un, un pour tous'!_"

"What's that mean?" Johnny demanded, yawning prodigiously.

"_ '__All for one, one for all'._"

They all laughed. Teresa turned and reached over to poke Ron. "I hereby appoint you honorary Lancer brother!"

Ron blushed. "Thanks... I'm honored, I think."

Scott yawned and stretched his one good arm. "Being lectured by our resident schoolmarm is downright exhausting... I need a nap!"

"Me, too," Johnny agreed, "but I ain't got the energy to make it upstairs."

"Then don't," Teresa said. "If you're all comfortable right where you are, then stay there. Anyone need a blanket or a pillow? No? Good... I'm going inside to help start supper. Ron... you look like you could use a little shut-eye yourself... I'll be back in an hour or so to check on you..."

**By the time Teresa extricated herself** from her chair and swished away, eyelids were already at half-staff—including her own. She really did intend to help with dinner preparations but Maria Elena chased her right back out of the kitchen after fifteen minutes, claiming she was worse than useless.

**Before ascending the staircase**, Teresa ducked around the corner for a last-minute check on the courtyard occupants. All four young men were sound asleep. For the first time Teresa was afforded an opportunity to study Johnny and Jody at leisure, to try to identify the commonalities... and the differences.

Both were slightly-built men, with Johnny having the marginally more mature physique, wider face and stronger jawline. It was unlikely that Jody would grow any taller or fill out much more. Both displayed characteristics consistent with their maternal ethnicities... Johnny was darker-skinned and darker-haired. His hair had a tendency to curl whereas Jody's was more silky and almost stick-straight. Johnny was hirsute and Jody was not. There was nothing immediately evident proclaiming, yes, these are Murdoch Lancer's get. Not like Scott, who shared their father's height, fair hair and pale blue-gray eyes.

No... it was more in their mannerisms... in the way both of them tended to tilt their heads down and cut their eyes sideways, to look up at you through long dark eyelashes... in Johnny's case when he was in good humor. Teresa didn't know about Jody yet—so far he'd expressed more reserve than Johnny.

Whereas Scott had had correct posture drilled into him since childhood—shoulders back, spine straight, buttocks and gut tucked in—the other two adopted more relaxed stances. Scott strode about like a soldier, with a purposeful air that—as Teresa recalled—duplicated Murdoch's... or as Murdoch's used to be before his injury. Johnny rolled with a willowy horseman's gait. So did Jody... or would if not impeded by a limp that might or might not be self-correcting in time. Scott's speech was crisp and precise—the other two had naturally low-pitched, slow-paced voices. Teresa suspected Jody's first tongue had also not been English.

Scott endeavored to dress neatly and conservatively, preferring muted—almost drab—solid colors. In the beginning his formal urban upbringing had led him to fuss over wardrobe maintenance being not quite up to his standards... until he discovered that all the laundresses were having fits of giggles over it at his expense. Since then he'd come to accept casual attire as the norm on a ranch... which didn't mean he intentionally left his shirttails untucked.

Johnny, on the other hand—although devoted to his black, boot-cut _vaquero_ trousers with the side-leg concho fasteners—indulged his love of bright colors with an array of fancifully patterned and embroidered shirts in his cedar closet... worn tucked or untucked according to whether or not he felt he needed to be wearing his gunbelt as well.

There again, Teresa had no clue as to what Jody's normal choice of attire might be... when he wasn't being a fugitive or an undercover wrangler.

Seeing that all was in order and trusting that Maria Elena or one of the girls would keep regular watch, Teresa trudged upstairs toward her own nap. In all honesty, she needed one. Peeling down to her chemise and drawers, she flopped on the bed, congratulating herself on a mission satisfactorily accomplished. In minutes she was sound asleep herself.


	62. Chapter 62

_Chapter 62: _**LOST AND FOUND**

**In what seemed like only minutes later,** three sharp knocks at the door were followed by the door opening... only one person ever did that—Maria Elena.

"_El patrón está llegando,_" she announced simply and backed away, closing the door behind her.

Teresa shot off the bed to the southeast-facing window. Sure enough, a wagon was just approaching under the arch—not the same one that had left that morning... one of the team was a gray. She counted seven outriders. Including the time it would take to open and swing wide two sets of gates, she had maybe eight minutes before the wagon arrived at the kitchen portico.

Grabbing an ankle-length skirt and shirtwaist blouse, Teresa checked the gallery for clearance and galloped for the bathroom. She washed her face, cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair back and fastened it at the nape of her neck... and dressed in double time—six minutes, max. Another two minutes to hurtle down the stairs, around the corner, through the kitchen hall and out to the portico... just as the wagon rolled in and stopped.

Ranch children darted about catching reins as the men dismounted. Chucho was first off the wagon—unsuccessfully attempting to avoid being clasped to his grandmother's quite substantial bosom. 'Father' Paul clambered down after the teenager and turned to offer unnecessary assistance to the disheveled nun remaining on the seat. Cat hiked up the skirts of her habit before literally jumping from the driver's seat and landing bent-kneed like an acrobat on well-worn cowboy boots.

Teresa stepped forward, unsure of protocol here... should she greet the padre first... or the sister? Maria Elena solved that dilemma by curtsying to the cleric and practically frogmarching him toward the kitchen along with her grandson. The three maids trailed behind like ducklings, leaving Teresa and 'Sister' Mary in each other's company.

"Welcome back..." Teresa ventured, dying to know the details of their disappearance but sensing a barrage of questions would be unwelcome at this time. Sister Mary was looking dusty and unsure of herself. In any case, Murdoch was approaching—having detached himself from the cluster of menfolk unloading their personal gear from the wagon—and he took precedence.

**"****The boys...?"**

"... are fine. They're having siesta in the courtyard."

"_All three?_" Murdoch looked dubious. "You left them alone... _together..._?" He danced a few steps sideways, as though to go around his ward to get to the door. She matched and blocked determinedly.

"Not alone... Ronnie Goldman's out there. And they've been been _talking_, Murdoch. Détente's been established... for the present. My advice is, let them work this out among themselves..."

"How did you accomplish that?"

Teresa gave him the condensed version of how she'd hoodwinked the three into engaging under a flag of truce. Under her admittedly heavy-handed moderation, they'd reached an accommodation of sorts. They'd even enjoyed an impromptu luncheon party and no blood had been spilled on the flagstones. She wisely forebore explaining the entertainment portion of the program.

The father found another objection. "Shouldn't they be resting...?"

"Old thinking, Murdoch. The new thinking is that the sooner patients become ambulatory, the sooner they recuperate."

"Could we maybe just look in on them? Only for a moment?" Cat queried timidly. Teresa's antenna twitched. She'd been aware of the surreptitious glances Murdoch and the nun had been trading. _We? What was up with that? What interest could a nun have in the Lancer boys?_

"Oh... let's not disturb them just yet." Teresa looked past her guardian to where the clot of returned searchers—Sheriff Val, Marshal Sammons, Gabriel McClanahan, Vicente Serrato, Jelly Hoskins and Miguel Vega—were now milling around down by the corral, unsaddling their mounts.

"I'd like to keep the noise level down in the house, if you don't mind. Murdoch, why don't you and the rest of the men go to the bathhouse and start getting cleaned up? Brother Paul can use the downstairs lavatory and Sister Mary the upstairs one."

Murdoch capitulated, though not graciously, and did a double-take as a tousle-haired, bleary-eyed Scott appeared in the kitchen passage doorway. The fact that his elder—make that eldest—son was presenting himself in the middle of the day in a less than sartorially-correct, well-groomed condition was testimony to his unwell state. Nevertheless, Scott, as usual, was comporting himself as though nothing were amiss and Murdoch knew he wouldn't appreciate any reference to his current infirmities.

**"****Ah... you're back... **I thought I heard a wagon pull in... I take it the lost have been found?"

"They weren't lost, _per se_...," Murdoch said. "They were held up by a pair of desperadoes who forced them to drive to Morro Coyo in the middle of the night. By the time we got there, all the excitement was over and the brigands locked up in the _calabozo_."

Teresa gasped in alarm. "Not land grabbers again... on our ranch?!"

Murdoch suppressed a chuckle. "It's actually a pretty funny story..."

"They kidnap a nun, a monk and a kid and you find that amusing?" Scott was affronted.

"Well... not when you put it that way."

Scott turned to the woman in the nun's habit. "None of you were injured... or...?"

"We weren't, no... thanks for your concern. Those two men, though..." Cat snorted, "have to be the most inept highwaymen in California! Paul and I felt sorry for them. We decided not to press charges. They'll be on the afternoon stage and won't be troubling you again."

"But... how did you get away from them?" Curiosity overcoming Teresa's urge to attend to a guest's needs.

Murdoch intervened. "Perhaps Sister Mary would like to freshen up first and rest before answering any more questions?"

"No... I'm good. Not much to tell... these two _garbanzos_—bounty hunter wannabes—were hired to find Jody and bring him back to Los Angeles. They're the ones who shot Johnny, by the way. They had only a vague physical description and they were following the wrong man. They had a spot of bother on the road and lost their horses, so when we came along they accosted us and made us drive them all the way to Morro Coyo."

"Then what happened?" Teresa was enthralled.

"Nothing... they were in bad shape, all bunged up... by the time we got into town it was dark and they were both desperate for medical attention. Some men from the one cantina that was still open came out to help us. They rousted out the constable with the keys to the lockup and went for the doctor, who wasn't there but his wife did what she could for the two men. Mrs. Jenkins was also kind enough to provide beds for Paul and the kid and myself for the rest of the night. Fed us breakfast, too. Nice lady. We were about to head out when Mr. Lancer and his crew rode in and collected us. That's all..."

Murdoch concluded. "The constable confiscated what money they had left from their commission... enough to pay their passage back to Los Angeles and cover the livery bill for the nags they rented. I did let Amos know we have his two horses here and will return them as soon as possible."

"What about you, Murdoch... are you going to press charges on John's behalf?" Scott asked.

Murdoch shook his head negatively. "No point in doing so, Scott. What's done is done. They're not evil men... just stupid. Jail time won't improve their intelligence."

"And the man who hired them? Don't you want to prosecute _him?"_

"That's a whole other complicated story, son... best we save that one until after dinner. Teresa, why don't you escort Cat... er, Sister Mary... upstairs. I believe she has something she wants to discuss with you."

_Cat?_

"Any chance of a hot bath?" Cat asked.

"Of course... come with me," Teresa beckoned. Both young women vanished into the kitchen passage, leaving father and son to face each other.

**"****Scott, I..."**

"Sir, I..."

"Go ahead..."

"No... you first, sir..."

"I believe I'll have a drink before going to the bathhouse," Murdoch said, heading for the greatroom. "Care to join me?"

"I'd like that, sir," Scott said... and meant it.

A few minutes later, whiskies in hand, father and son stood side by side at the arched window by Murdoch's desk, contemplating the pastoral scene displayed on the other side of the glass... much the same as Scott had done the day of his arrival.

"Nickle for your thoughts, son."

"Isn't that supposed to be a penny?"

"Inflation..."

"Right." Scott tossed back his whiskey. "I was thinking of an old French proverb—'_plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose'."_

"Which means...?"

" 'The more things change, the more they stay the same'... after all we've been through these past nine months—you, me, John... and now there's Jordan—the dramatic alterations in our existences that've come about, yet the view outside this window never changes..."

"Does that bother you? Do you wish it otherwise?"

"Not at all. It's become my anchor, my Rock of Gibraltar..."

"I'd have thought that Boston... and your grandfather...?"

"In the beginning I felt that way... that this was just another interlude in the course of my life..."

"And now?"

"Now this IS my life. I'm one hundred percent committed."

"Do you believe John feels the same way... or ever will?"

A long, pregnant pause. "I can't speak for my brother, sir."

Murdoch could have pressed for an opinion but chose not to.

"You wanted to say something earlier?"

"Sir... about this morning... the things I said..."

The father's heart constricted to see his son looking so adrift. He put a hand on Scott's uninjured shoulder. "Already forgotten..."

"I'm sorry, sir. I really am."

"We'll speak no more about it... although I do hope you'll find it in your heart to be a little more diplomatic and a little less judgmental when we formally welcome Jody into the family..." Murdoch hesitated. "If... and it's a mighty big if... we're all in agreement."

"I believe we've already got there, sir."

**Teresa and Cat had entered** the kitchen where Maria Elena was already plying her captive padre with strong coffee and cinnamon rolls hot from the oven. Teresa grabbed a bucket and conscripted two of the girls to help carry hot water upstairs. The nun didn't hesitate to fill her own and tote it.

"Other than yesterday's unpleasantness, has your visit here been productive... in gathering information, I mean?" Teresa ventured tentatively as the first four buckets were upended into the tub. Nereida and Ivelisse raced back down for two more.

"It's certainly been... um... _interesting._ On the way back from Morro Coyo Mr. Lancer told me all about last night... and how you had to fill in for the doctor..."

"Oh? And do you... uh... disapprove?"

"Disapprove? Certainly not!" Cat snorted. "What this territory needs is _more_ women like you... strong, educated women, unafraid to challenge the male establishment."

While Teresa considered this unusually forceful statement, Cat adroitly segued back to the boys. "Mr. Lancer said his sons were doing well and out of danger... not overly optimistic I hope? You can speak frankly... I do understand most medical terms..."

"What? Oh... oh no... not at all... not over-optimistic, I mean. Doc Jenkins was with me the whole time and he talked me through it. The surgeries themselves were as minimally invasive as we could manage and Doctor Sam is a booger about antisepsis, so we're not anticipating infection... but... well... you can't ever be sure it won't happen."

"What's with the 'we'? Don't sell yourself short, Teresa. The ability to heal is a gift. Don't squander it! Would you mind staying with me while I bathe? I need to talk to you... it's a personal matter..."

"Oh... um... sure."

_Personal?_ Teresa's first thought was that perhaps it was that time of the month and the woman had been caught short.

"If it's... ah... supplies you need...?"

Cat laughed. "No... nothing like that. There's something I need to tell you before the others come in. It's likely to get confusing around here in short order..."

"I'm already confused..." Teresa admitted as they headed to the bedroom designated as Cat's from her previous stay, while the maids finished filling the tub.

**Cat sat on the edge of the bed,** tugging off her boots then standing up to begin unbuttoning the cumbersome habit. Teresa politely looked away toward the window. Looking back she was startled to find the other had been clad underneath in trousers and a man's shirt—which soon joined the habit and the complicated headgear on the floor.

Teresa was mesmerized by Cat's short silvery-blonde hair. Were all nuns required to chop off their hair like a boy?

"Would you happen to have a robe I could borrow?"

"Sure... be right back..."

Cat chucked off her undergarments and, wrapping the chenille robe around herself, headed out the door to the gallery in her bare feet, talking over her shoulder. "If you've got time to sit with me, I'll explain..."

Teresa locked the bathroom door behind them and took several tins of bath salts from a cupboard under the counter.

"Use as much as you like... I've got plenty."

"Thanks... I will."

Teresa took the straightback chair, arranging herself expectantly as Cat stripped off the robe and stepped in the tub, sinking into the scented water with an appreciative groan.

"Heavenly! Give me a minute to savor it..."

She got her minute and a few more before Teresa's inquisitiveness overcame manners.


	63. Chapter 63

_Chapter 63: _**GIRL TALK**

**"****Um... what was it **you wanted to talk to me about, Sister Mary?"

"First of all... my name's Catriona. Call me 'Cat'. Everyone does. I'm not a nun."

"You're not?"

"And Paul isn't a monk, either."

"I see," said Teresa, who didn't see at all.

"What've you been told so far about Murdoch's trip to Los Angeles?"

"Nothing... except he was going to visit an old friend named Cameron. I vaguely recall hearing of him but I've never met him. We knew nothing about the... er... any other business until yesterday..."

"By other business you mean the illegitimate son?"

"Well... yes. That's when he told us he had one that he'd just found out about."

"Tip of the iceberg," Cat said. "I disagreed with him about withholding this information from the family but was overruled. He wanted to wait until he had a body in his possession for show and tell..."

"A body... you mean... _Jody's_ body? How do _you_ know him?"

"Maybe I'd better let Murdoch do the talking," Cat teased with a grin. "It's his show, after all..."

"No... NO!" Teresa objected vehemently. "I don't think I can wait... please... go on!"

"Okeydokey... I'll try to keep it short... or until the water cools off. Feel free to interrupt when you have a question. Would you happen to have a nail brush? How about a back scrubber?"

"Yes." Teresa jumped up to get both from her basket and handed them over. She dragged the chair closer to the tub.

"Until six months ago, Jody'd never known the name of his biological father. His mother finally told him just before she died. There was trouble with the stepfather. Jody disappeared and Ed hired the Pinkertons to find him. Six weeks ago Jody showed up at the Montero ranch and there was... an incident... a violent incident."

"Ed is the stepfather?"

"Yes... Eduardo Montero."

"Is that why the marshal is after him?"

"Yes. I'm getting to that. Ed fired the Pinkertons and Trey Cameron immediately hired them. All they had to do was pick up where they'd left off... still tracking Jody but never able to catch up. They traced him here. Murdoch had never been told about this child... and never _would_ have known if Jody's mother had carried the secret to her grave. Once the cat was out of the bag, Jody made it his mission to learn all about the Lancers. In the almost five months he was missing he traveled all the way to Boston and Texas to gather whatever information he could on Scott and Johnny. He also went to Cuba to meet his mother's people. The Pinks traced him back to California. When it became obvious Jody was headed here to meet his real father, that's when Trey decided to contact Murdoch and sent him that letter. In the meantime, Ed put out wanted posters and hired two bounty hunters to go after Jody. With me so far?"

"Yes. That makes sense. But how do you and Paul come into it... and why the disguise?"

"Paul LaPierre is affiliated with the Pinkertons, although not an agent—and is a close friend of the Camerons. He and Murdoch hoped to find Jody and get him to turn himself in before he got into worse trouble than he already was... neither Paul nor Murdoch would've known him on sight, so I volunteered to go. Murdoch refused, naturally—said a cow camp was no place for a female and he couldn't guarantee my safety. Paul and I came up with the idea of pretending to be a monk and nun. Even men who aren't Catholic aren't apt to mess with a nun. Worked really well, too—got nothing but respect and deference in the camps! Too bad it doesn't work that way in the secular world."

**"****What do you mean?** I'm always treated with respect here!"

Cat stopped in mid-scrub and cocked her head. "Are you now? And do your menfolk defer to your opinions? Do they really pay attention to your ideas? Or do they just pat you on the back and say, 'there, there, sweetie... don't trouble your pretty little head... we men'll do all the thinking for you'."

"Well... I... uh..."

"My point exactly. I'm not saying nuns are treated any better, just that they're at less risk of being perceived as sex objects." Cat abruptly switched tracks. "Last night you exercised the skills of a doctor but you don't have the title..."

"No, but I'm planning to go to medical school... I've always wanted to be a doctor..."

"You've discussed this with your guardian? He's supportive of this goal?"

"Well... no... not exactly. Whenever I've brought it up he's sort of brushed it off. He doesn't believe medicine is a proper field for a lady," Teresa admitted apologetically.

"Typical!" Cat snorted, standing up. "Hand me that pitcher, would you?"

Teresa studied her fingernails, mulling over Cat's words as the other woman rinsed off and stepped out of the tub. Handing over a towel, she parked that subject in a corner of her mind for later examination.

"May I ask how you figure into all of this. Are you... um... a relative?"

"Related by blood _and_ marriage... Trey Cameron is my uncle—my mother's brother. My mother is married to Elizondo Montero—he's _my_ stepfather... his brother Eduardo is my step-father-in-law."

"You're married?"

"Very much so." Cat grinned, slipping on the robe and tightening the sash, waiting for the shoe to drop.

"So that would make you... Jody's step-cousin... _and_ step-sister-in-law?"

Cat shook her head. "Step-cousin, yes... but Ed doesn't have a biological son... just three daughters... and a stepson."

They'd exited the bathroom and were heading along the gallery toward Cat's room when realization dawned on Teresa. She stopped dead in her tracks. "Oh... ohmigod! You're Jody's _wife?!_" The word came out as a squeak.

**"****Murdoch didn't tell you...** _any_ of you? That's a hell of an omission!"

"There hasn't been a whole lot of time for discussion..."

"Obviously not. Yes... I'm Jody's wife... and the mother of his son."

Teresa's mouth hung open... _a child?_

"His name's Joshua... he's eighteen months old."

Recovering her equilibrium, Teresa said, "As soon as you're dressed, I'll take you to Jody... I'm sure, after such a long separation, you must be eager to..."

"No... not yet... and not with other people around."

"I don't understand... don't you...?"

"Of course I want to see him, want to assure myself with my own eyes that he's all right... but there's other issues to consider here... reasons to _not_ surprise him if that's at all possible."

Teresa immediately twigged to 'issues'. "You're afraid the shock might trigger a seizure."

Cat's eyes narrowed. "You couldn't have known about that unless he..."

"Mild... very mild... he's actually in better physical shape than he appears to be... but I understand the problem—first he should be told you're here, and then given time to absorb it before he actually sees you."

"I love him, Teresa... I do. But the price of that love is that his emotional and psychological considerations will always have to come before mine. Always."

Teresa shuddered. "That hardly seems fair to you..."

Cat shrugged. "When you love a man, you do what you have to do... you make allowances... and sometimes find yourself having to make a pact with the Devil. It's just a little more difficult when that man doesn't conform to _normal_ as society judges normality to be."

"I don't think I could be that strong..."

"Of course you could... but let's hope you never have to."

They reached the bedroom and Teresa followed Cat inside, closing the door behind them.

"What time is it getting to be?" Cat asked. "I can hardly keep my eyes open... didn't get much sleep last night."

Teresa delved into a skirt pocket and came up with her father's railroad watch. "Three o'clock. It's about time to bring the boys upstairs so I can change their dressings. Why don't I go take care of that while you have a nap? I can speak with Jody privately and let him know you're here, if you like... then come and get you. If he's not up to going downstairs for dinner we'll send up a tray for you along with his."

"What about this family meeting Murdoch's been going on about?"

"What Murdoch wants and what's going to be possible aren't necessarily the same thing," Teresa said archly. "If I say they aren't well enough, then they aren't... _what?_"

Cat's face had taken on a peculiar expression. "Oh. Dinner. I hadn't thought about that... specifically... I hadn't thought about having to _dress_ for dinner..."

"Is there a problem?"

Cat went to her portmanteau, throwing drawers and chemise on the bed and withdrawing a stained and crumpled blouse and a wrinkled skirt with torn stitching at the hem. Normally staff would have hung these in the armoire after making them presentable... but they hadn't dared touch a nun's wardrobe!

"Well, that certainly won't do," Teresa sniffed, eyeing the items critically.

"All I've got," Cat shrugged. "Any suggestions?"

"Well... give 'em here. I'll get one of the girls to resurrect these for you while you're catching forty winks."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

**Retracing her steps** along the gallery and down the staircase, Teresa heard laughter coming from the greatroom by the time she reached the mid-landing. Two voices only—Murdoch's and Scott's. That was cheering—she knew they'd been at bitter odds that morning and dissension in the family always cast a pall over her day.

Continuing to the kitchen she found Maria Elena and the three maidservants already well into dinner preparations. As much as she hated to interrupt them, Teresa felt an explanation of circumstances was needed to avoid future complications. Maria Elena's face cycled from disbelief to abhorrence of the sacrilege—persons pretending to be a monk and a nun!—to grudging acceptance of why the subterfuge was necessary.

Teresa then held out the skirt and blouse to Nereida. " 'Reida... _por favor?_ Could you fix these in time for dinner, for the lady?"

"I will_ try_..." The girl took the items and scurried away. Teresa lingered long enough to praise Maria Elena's intended menu (accepted) and offer assistance (refused). Before she could exit the kitchen, however, Ron appeared in the hall portal with an anxious expression that lit up with relief when he saw her.

"There you are! I was just coming to look for you..."

Teresa went on alert. "Is there a problem...?"

"I think... maybe... yeah. Johnny upchucked..."

"Did what?"

"Barfed... you know, heaved... um... threw up... about half an hour ago."

"Why didn't you come and get me then?"

"He didn't want you to know... he tried gettin' up to clean it but I made him stay put and did it myself..."

"Not too good at keeping a secret, are you?" Teresa teased.

"I can keep a secret good as anybody, Miss Teresa," Ron defended himself, "but Johnny ain't... isn't looking too good. He's tryin' to hide it but I'm pretty sure he's feverish..."

Teresa felt a prickle of fear. "It's time for dressing change anyway. I believe Scott and Mr. Lancer are in the greatroom. Would you go fetch them so they can help get Jody and Johnny upstairs?"

"Yes, m'am."

Forcing herself to remain calm and wiping worry from her face, Teresa retreated through the hallway to the glass doors behind the staircase. Jody had taken over Scott's vacated spot in order to facilitate further conversation with Johnny, which trailed off as Teresa drew near. Two dark heads turned in her direction. Not for the first time she was struck by the outlandish notion that if every fishbelly white person were to marry someone of color, the world would eventually be populated by exceptionally attractive, multi-hued children who had never heard the words 'racial prejudice.'


	64. Chapter 64

_Chapter 64: _**A MINOR SETBACK**

**An hour and a half later,** Cat was curled up in the armchair by the window reading when Teresa finally returned with an armload of clothing... not the ones she'd left with. She seemed harried.

"Is it time... finally?"

"Dinner's in an hour and your clothes won't be ready in time. I couldn't find anything in my closet that would fit you, but you and Inés are about the same size so she's loaning you these..."

Cat got out of the chair and examined the items—a full skirt and petticoat, a _puebla_ blouse and a pair of sandals—and noticed the younger girl had already changed into a similar ensemble.

"Hope you don't mind..." Teresa added. "I find the style very comfortable, myself."

"So do I when I'm at home," Cat grinned, immediately trading the robe for the petticoat. "Anything happening I should know about? You look a little distracted."

Teresa thumped onto a straight-back chair. "Johnny had a low-grade fever last night. It's spiked and I'm not sure where it's coming from. The wound was clean, not showing any sign of infection when I changed the dressing. I'm hoping all it signifies is that he overdid it today and just needs a few days of bedrest."

"And Jody? How's he faring?" Cat admired the intricate stitchery decorating the neckline of the blouse before slipping it over her head.

Teresa hesitated—only a moment. Cat caught it and frowned. "Didn't you...?"

"I did... I did... but... I guess I just don't understand..."

"What is it you don't understand?"

"When I told him you were here... all he said was 'okay.' He didn't ask why you didn't come to him straightaway... or even _when_ he'd see you. Wasn't the least bit curious about how you knew where to find him. Didn't ask anything about his... your... son."

Cat blinked and continued dressing. A full minute passed before she spoke. "Not reacting the way one might expect is a defense mechanism, Teresa. When you left him was he alert? Lucid?"

"He _was_... I don't know about _now_. I've had him and Johnny both on low-level pain management all day..."

"Excuse me, but... does that mean what it sounds like? That you've been drugging them regularly _all day_—whether or not they need it?" Cat interrupted, appalled. "What about the risk of addiction?"

Teresa held up a hand. "I'm well aware of the risk factor. And it's codeine, not laudanum. The dosages are very small and highly diluted in a syrup suspension—easily disguised so that the patient doesn't even know he's being medicated. Doctor Jenkins has been experimenting with this treatment plan for over a year now. His goal is to enable a patient to maintain a tolerable level of pain, rather than withholding analgesics until the pain becomes overwhelming and the patient has to be drugged into oblivion. Sam believes that half the healing process depends on patient participation... on having a healthy mindset toward recuperation, and that the patient can't do that if he's preoccupied with mind-numbing pain... or won't follow directions."

"I suppose that makes sense... still... if they haven't _complained_ of having pain, why...?"

"The other part of the problem—especially with a man like Johnny—is keeping him down long enough for his body to begin repairing itself. John has an extremely high pain threshhold and about this much patience..." Teresa held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "No matter how severely he's injured, he keeps right on going... or tries to, even when advised he's only aggravating the damage. Other than by employing physical restraints it's damned near impossible to keep him in bed. He rarely admits he is in pain and generally refuses anything that might provide relief. _That_ is why we have to be sneaky about it... to keep him manageable."

Cat nodded thoughtfully. "I've never had that problem with Jody. He's usually agreeable and cooperative about treatment whenever he's been sick or injured..."

"Yes... he's been extremely cooperative so far," Teresa agreed. "And although he didn't _say_ he was hurting, I could tell that he was. He didn't reject my offer of laudanum."

"So what you're saying is that I could _try_ talking to him but he may not be coherent?"

"Pretty much that's it, yeah. Sorry."

"I've waited this long. I suppose I can wait a little longer."

**Teresa stood up,** pushing hair away from her face. "I'd best do something with this rat's nest before going downstairs. Putting it up takes forever."

"Want some help?"

"Oh... well... sure..."

They went through the connecting door to Teresa's room, where the latter sat before the oval mirror at her dressing table... slightly uncomfortable at having another woman dress her hair for her. Only Maria Elena had ever done that, and not since she was a little girl.

They didn't speak for a few minutes while Cat concentrated on working out the worst of the snarls in Teresa's heavy tresses.

"I wish I had the nerve to cut mine as short as yours... it must be liberating!"

Cat laughed, gently tugging at the last tangle. "That's one way of looking at it."

"May I ask a personal question?"

"Go ahead..."

"Why _did_ you cut it like that?"

"Wasn't intentional. I was having a nap and a certain little boy got hold of the scissors I'd been using to trim his hair earlier. By the time his nanny noticed, the damage was done. The silly girl was petrified I'd fire her... he could have put an eye out—mine or his... but, really, it was just as much stupidity on my part for leaving them within reach as it was on her part for not paying closer attention. Had no choice but to even it up to the shortest part. It'll grow back."

Teresa was carefully observing Cat's reflection in the mirror and decided on a bolder question.

"Were you angry with Jody for leaving you? Are you still angry?" It was only the reason she could think of why a wife wouldn't be anxious to run to her husband's side after a six months' separation... her and Cat's earlier conversation notwithstanding. Cat didn't bat an eyelash, just kept looping whorls and pinning them into place.

"Of course I _was_... and terrified. But I couldn't let _him_ know that. We talked about where he wanted to go and why. I had to give him my blessing. He would have gone anyway, with or without it. There was nothing I could do except hope for the best outcome."

"And has it been a good outcome?"

Cat paused for a moment, then, and their eyes met in the mirror. "We don't know that yet, do we? We don't know everything that's happened to him during that time, or how he's coped."

"Well enough that he's still alive and you're getting him back," Teresa said, a little more tartly than intended.

"There is that... and I'm grateful... but now I find myself facing a situation I hadn't anticipated. I could discuss it with Paul—he's a trained counselor, after all—but advice from a woman's perspective might be more enlightening..."

"A situation... as in...?"

"It's hard to explain..."

"Try me..."

"I imagine you're seeing me as cold and manipulative, Teresa, but you have to understand... for years and years I've been Jody's protector. We've rarely been separated more than a few days at a time... until all this came about—with his mother dying and letting the genie out of the bottle. I'd deluded myself into believing I was the only one who could keep him safe... not only from other people but from himself... that he couldn't manage on his own. Much, I suppose, as a mother feels toward a child. But he wasn't... he _isn't_ my child... he's a grown man. I know this... knew it then. Knew I had to let go. It's not just his physical safety I've worried over this past half year... it's how six months of being away from me might have altered our relationship. What if he doesn't need me anymore... or want me? Then what?"

Cat took a step back and put both hands to her face for a moment. Teresa was both alarmed and relieved at this indication that her companion wasn't quite the paragon of self-possession that she projected herself to be... which, frankly, had been grating on Teresa's nerves. _So... she's human after all!_ No one wanted a consummate know-it-all for a sister-in-law. She had, in fact, been nursing a growing conviction that she and this woman weren't going to get along. Now she was experiencing a slight thawing in that belief.

Presently Cat sniffed and shook her head, emotional crisis averted. "The only way I've kept my sanity over the past half year is remind myself over and over that I have to let go."

"Yes... well... that makes sense," Teresa offered. "Honestly, though... I can't imagine myself coping nearly as well with such a complicated relationship!"

**"****Seems to me, Teresa, **you've been coping quite nicely without even realizing you had a problem." Catriona continued gathering and pinning Teresa's thick locks without hesitation.

"Excuse me? I'm not following..."

"I heard a lot about your resident bad boy from Murdoch while we were on the road. Johnny and Jody both had rough childhoods and... correct me if I'm wrong... they've grown into defensive adults with behavior and learning deficits. Murdoch says Johnny has calmed down significantly since he's been here... but every now and then—when something goes wrong—he goes off the rails and reacts violently. Is this not so?"

"Yes... that's true. Just when we think he's adjusted to ranch life and is settling down, something bad happens and people start shooting each other..."

"Jody's the same way... not a gunfighter, of course. As long as he's in a stable environment, with life proceeding routinely and no upsets, he's fine. But something unexpected comes along and he's off the wall. It's my job to guide him back. That's why I can't afford to show any upset myself, even though inside I may be crying, or scared to death, or worried... or mad as hell. I'm his lifeline to sanity."

"I think I understand. So if Jody's mother had never told him about Murdoch, none of this would've happened?"

"What happened between him and his stepfather would've happened sooner or later anyway but you and I wouldn't be having this conversation. There would just be some other bad situation."

"If Murdoch hadn't sent for Johnny, he'd be dead. He was about to go before a firing squad in Mexico when the Pinkerton agent found him and helped him escape. Even though at first he hated Murdoch, he knows he owes him his life. We're aware that he still doesn't trust any one of us completely.

Cat pinned the last whorl of hair into place. "That's too bad. Everybody needs a psychological safety net—that one special person he or she can trust implicitly."

"If anyone is Johnny's lifeline, it's Scott. He'll listen to Scott before he'll listen to Murdoch... or me."

"I'm glad he has someone."

"He has nightmares about... things from the past... he won't admit it to us, though."

"I can imagine. There... how's that?" Cat stepped back.

Teresa studied herself in the mirror. With her hair piled high in sculpted curls and artful ringlets, she hardly recognized herself.

"Oh. Oh my. They won't know me. I could never do this myself."

"Neither could I, when my hair was long."

**Teresa stood** and went to the carved sandalwood jewelry case on the double dresser. "I think this occasion calls for an extra bit of dress-up... how about some earrings?"

"Oh... I don't usually wear anything besides this..." Cat's left hand now featured a thin gold band she hadn't been wearing earlier.

Teresa extracted a pair of garnet drops. "These are just perfect for you..."

Finally they were both ready to exit the bedroom onto the gallery. When they reached the door to Jody's room, Cat paused uncertainly. Teresa touched her elbow reassuringly.

"It's time, Catriona..." she said quietly, knocking softly on the door.

Ron opened the door just far enough to show his face. Teresa motioned him out onto the gallery and he eeled out, doing a double-take at Cat's 'civilian' attire. Someone had found him some dressier clothes... things had Murdoch had outgrown. He was entirely presentable with his hair neatly combed. Probably Scott'd had a hand in that.

"Is Jody decent?" Teresa whispered.

"If you mean dressed, yeah." Ronnie whispered back. "But in a mood. He doesn't want to go down there and face those people. Can't say I blame him."

"Cat needs to have a private word with him. Would you mind waiting out here with me?"

Ron stepped aside and Cat glided in, closing the door gently behind her.

"What's all that about?" Ron asked, frankly curious. "I thought she was a nun?"

"She's his wife. I'll explain later."

"Huh?"

"Are you ready to go downstairs."

"Uh... yes m'am."

Teresa held an arm out. "If you would be so kind as to escort me...?"

"Yes... m'am!"

Arm in arm, they headed toward the staircase.


	65. Chapter 65

_Chapter 65: _**TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES**

**In attendance at dinner** were Murdoch, Scott, Teresa, Gabriel McClanahan, Marshal Sammons, Ron Goldman and Jelly. Maria Elena asserted her seniority by personally carrying Johnny's dinner upstairs and sitting with him while he ate. Ines and Nereida took trays up to the newly reunited couple, following which Ines reported that the pair had drawn together two chairs under the picture window and were holding hands, speaking quietly with heads close together.

Downstairs, Murdoch steered conversation to the topic of the family conference which he was unwilling to put off. The sooner the air was cleared, the better for all concerned. That Teresa had jumped the gun by bringing the three young men together was a nicely timed bonus, in his estimation. Didn't Scott agree? Yes... Scott did indeed agree, admitting to earlier having harbored an unreasonable hostility.

Revising her earlier stance against holding the meeting that same evening, Teresa was now thinking Murdoch was right... it might be best to get it over with. If... and only IF... the boys felt well enough to participate. She excused herself to go upstairs to check. A knock at Jody's door brought Cat, who affirmed that Jody was composed and now willing to meet the family on a more formal basis. She would help him dress in the clean clothes that had been provided. A quick check revealed that Johnny was alert and in a receptive mood. Scott, who'd come upstairs with Teresa, volunteered to help Johnny dress as best he could and sent both Teresa and Maria Elena packing.

**Eight o'clock in the greatroom...** The armchairs flanking the fireplace had been turned to face outwards. A straightback chair accompanied one of them. Chairs from the refectory table had been rearranged behind the sofa in a semicircle and to either side of it. At the last minute Murdoch had decided it would be beneficial to include non-family observers—especially Marshal Sammons, feeling that the lawman's sensibilities could be skewed in Jody's favor once he'd heard the entire story. He requested that Paul be present in his professional capacity as psychologist... to keep a mental finger on the pulse of the proceedings so that he could later determine if they had moved in a satisfactory direction.

Feeling supremely self-conscious, Murdoch stood in front of the fireplace with his feet apart, bracing himself on his cane.

Val Crawford had straggled in from Green River just in time for the dessert course. He and the marshal were seated together in the back row, whispering and nodding thoughtfully and occasionally grinning. Though dying to know what they were talking about, Murdoch kept to his post as others wandered in and found their places.

Cipriano and Maria Elena Melendez occupied two of the refectory chairs to the left of the sofa, solemn yet proud to be considered 'family'. Jelly sat to the right, looking self-conscious. He'd offered to absent himself, but no one had agreed that he ought to. Gabriel McClanahan and Aaron Goldman had tried to excuse themselves but Murdoch insisted they be present.

The three servant girls appeared with wine goblets and a selection of wines which they placed on the refectory table before gliding away silently, closing behind them the doors in the foyer leading to the kitchen and dining room. The double doors to the greatroom stood ajar, awaiting the last arrivals.

Johnny came through first, managing the steps down with some difficulty though Scott had his good arm securely around his brother's waist. Scott and Teresa between them got Johnny settled on the sofa with pillows supporting his back and his injured leg propped on an ottoman. Murdoch's gut did a flipflop... his younger... his _middle_ son looked so tired and vulnerable. Perhaps it had been a mistake after all to push for this evening. Looking closely, however, he detected in Johnny's level look that steely determination that had sustained him through far worse injuries than a bullet in the thigh.

**Everyone was here now... **except Cat... and the reason for everything that had happened in the past three weeks. All eyes turned expectantly on Murdoch. He felt perspiration creeping under his shirt collar. Before he could speak, Cat materialized at the threshhold to the room, Jody at her side.

Heads turned again and there was a collective intake of breath at the sight of the striking couple. Light from the foyer's overhead lamp created a halo effect behind Cat's cropped white-blonde hair and struck prisms of color off the gems at her ears. Standing stalwart to Jody's left, with her arm firmly locked in his, she looked positively regal. She whispered something in his ear, probably encouragement, and they descended the three steps, moving slowly toward the fireplace. Murdoch indicated Jody should take one of the armchairs and Cat the adjacent straightback chair.

This was the first time anyone'd had an opportunity for a good long look at the object of all the recent turmoil. Clean-shaven and with hair trimmed back to a socially acceptable length, he appeared relatively harmless.

Before seating herself, Cat addressed Murdoch. "Mr. Lancer. I believe we'd all be more relaxed if you'd sit down and make yourself comfortable as well. Otherwise, this assembly will seem more of an inquisition. I don't believe any of us want that."

In the murmur of assent, Scott surprised everyone—including himself—by lumbering to his feet.

"She's right... we can all listen perfectly well if you're sitting down... and you need to be off that leg... Father."

_Father? _Murdoch was so overwhelmed he did as told. Scott awkwardly dragged the ottoman over with one hand and helped Murdoch adjust his bad leg on it, then returned to his place on the sofa.

Murdoch cleared his throat and began again.

**"****This isn't exactly how I envisioned** presenting Jordan to our family... or us to him, for that matter. What should have been a dignified and orderly progression of events has turned into a comedy of errors. Except that it hasn't been all that funny. People have been hurt. My _sons_ have been hurt... all _three_ of them. I feel I'm partly to blame for the communications breakdown that led to this.

Each of you is in possession of pieces of the puzzle... but none of you have the complete picture. The question on everyone's mind is probably how did all this come about? For that I must take you back over two decades... I'll try to be as concise as possible.

Catherine... Scott's mother... was my first true love. When she died, I thought I'd never find that love again. Time went by and I met Maria... Johnny's mother. She reignited love that had been lying dormant... that I didn't dream I would ever again find in me. You all know what happened there. I was angry for a long time. In retrospect I can see it was a destructive anger. Even had I been able to find John and gain custody of Scott when they were both still small children, I probably wouldn't have been a very effective father. Whatever paternal instincts survived, I owe to that little girl over there... who's no longer so little."

Murdoch nodded toward Teresa.

"Two things happened the year Teresa turned one... she lost her mother, and I was introduced to a beautiful young Cuban woman... Pilar Marín..."

**It took Murdoch a little over an hour** to outline the parallel but separate evolutions of the Lancer and Montero families, and another hour to weave together all the events that had culminated in their being here on this evening of revelations. Heads nodded whenever an event was mentioned in which he or she had been involved, but no one interrupted Murdoch's mellifluous baritone delivery. During portions of profound emotional impact, his voice grew hoarse and the burr of his native Scots dialect would surface.

When he finally arrived at the conclusion, everyone's face was solemn.

"The question now isn't one of kinship... in my mind that's been firmly established. Teresa's lived here since birth—I regard her as my own daughter. When you, John, and you, Scott, made up your minds to throw in with us, I couldn't have been happier... even though you might not have thought so from the way I acted towards you. I believed our family circle was complete. The past two weeks have proven me wrong on that score. And now I find I have ample room in my heart for three more. I'm hoping_ you _three—Scott, John, Teresa—feel the same way."

"Three?" Johnny queried. "Don'cha mean _two_ more?"

Murdoch smiled. "No... I meant three. For those of you who don't already know, the young lady to my right is Jody's wife... Catriona Christensen Montero... or Lancer... depending on what we all agree on this evening. Jody and Cat have a son of their own... Joshua. He's a year and a half old and the spitting image of you at that age, John. In fact, he's what convinced me... at first I assumed he _was_ yours."

Johnny was mortified. Scott stifled a snicker. Teresa put a hand to her mouth to smother a giggle. Cat smiled. Jody's face remained carefully neutral.

Murdoch continued. "I have just a few more comments before I open the floor to Scott, John and Teresa to give us their thoughts. I want you three to keep in mind that any judgments... or decisions... are not entirely ours to make. Jody came here to learn about us—his people—before making up his own mind. His introduction to our family has been anything but calm and welcoming. He may not even want to associate with us in future. If that's the case I trust he'll be honest with us. Who wants to go first?"

**"****I will," Teresa volunteered in a firm voice. **She arose gracefully and went to stand by Murdoch's chair, laying one hand on his shoulder.

"I grew up knowing about Murdoch's sons... but they were never quite real to me. He and Papa often talked about them in the evenings. They'd be sitting here by the fireplace, sipping brandy... speculating about what might be happening in their lives, what kind of men they'd grown into, what it might be like if they both were here. When I was old enough to understand and asked Papa why Uncle Murdoch was always so sad, he told me that—like himself—Uncle Murdoch had eventually got over the loss of his wives but was never able to stop grieving for his lost boys. When I was older still, I understood that Murdoch had so much love in him... and no one to give it to, so he gave it to me. I got what you both should have had.

I always wanted brothers and sisters but knew, somehow, I'd never have any. So Scotty and Johnny became my pretend brothers and pretend playmates. When I said my prayers at night, it was for my brothers to become real... then—last year—it happened. My prayers were answered... a little late for playmates but better late than never.

Scott, John... you'll never know how excited and happy I was when I heard there was a possibility you both might be coming home. I know it hasn't been easy for the two of you to find your place here... we were a family of strangers. And it probably never occurred to either of you that your father was just as scared of meeting you as you were of meeting him... that he worried that maybe _he_ wouldn't measure to _your_ expectations.

Oh sure, he's got all this... but what's it worth if there's no family to share it with? When Papa died, I knew—just for a little while—what it feels like to have no family. It was the most horrible, lonely, empty feeling in the world! But Murdoch made me understand he was now my family... and then the two of you came.

And now we have Jody... and I'm excited all over again because I'm getting a new brother, a sister... _and_ a nephew! That's all I wanted to say."

Teresa returned to the sofa, poking Scott in the ribs on the way down. "Your turn!"

**Scott didn't demur. **He went straight to Murdoch's other side and adopted Teresa's pose... with his left hand on his father's shoulder as his right arm was bound to his chest. A muscle in Murdoch's cheek twitched, as if he were hiding amusement at being used as a podium.

"Most of you already know I'm the pragmatist in this family... well... most of the time, anyway. According to Teresa that translates to pompous ass."

A titter ran through the audience but quickly died.

"When I found out Johnny was my brother, I didn't much care for the idea. Aside from the War, my life'd been regimented... a place for everything and everything in its place. Johnny Madrid is anything _but!_ Now that we've come to know each other, though, I can't imagine life without him making trouble and creating uproar."

This time the laughter was open, except for Johnny who simply looked chagrined.

"And then along came Jody, claiming to be another long-lost brother. Not that he did so openly... no. He arrived in _mufti_, so to speak, to get our measure before we could get his. I know I made it clear I didn't think much of him at first... and I apologize for that. Now I understand why he felt he needed to be so cautious. And I apologize for placing the value of a horse's life above his... if I hadn't acted like a total jerk he wouldn't have been shot. I think, too, I was worried that his claim would upset the balance of ownership of this ranch as it currently stands. I've been advised that won't be the case."

Scott tapped his father on the shoulder to get his attention. Murdoch looked up.

"Today, while all of you were out looking for Paul and Catriona, the three of us casualties and our charge nurse... excuse me... _doctor_... had a long conversation in the courtyard. I can't speak for Johnny, but I'm wholeheartedly in favor of welcoming this new brother... and his bride and our nephew... into our family. If Jody can forgive me my earlier trespasses, it's my wish he accept me as a brother. That's all I've got to say."

As Scott returned to the sofa, Johnny held a hand out for assistance. "Help me up, brother." With his shillelagh, he hobbled over to Murdoch's chair, standing behind it and using both hands on the backrest to support himself.

**"****I ain't much on makin' speeches..."** Johnny fumbled.

Murdoch twisted around in his chair and reached up to pat Johnny's hand.

"That's all right, son... just say what's in your heart. But speak up a little so everyone can hear you..."

"Okay." His gaze settled on Jody because his face was the least unnerving one.

"When I came here, it was with one goal in mind... see Murdoch Lancer go down... maybe even kill him... payback for throwin' me and my mama out. I ain't sure why I didn't go through with it, unless maybe it was on account a Teresa gettin' right in my face. Ain't too many folks done that and lived to tell about it. But she made me listen and I decided to stay and see what it might be like, havin' a family. Maybe it was a little bit of jealousy... seein' it didn't take Scott but a day or two to fit right in. He had all the education and all the right words. I didn't fit in nowhere. Seemed like every time I turned around I was gettin' in trouble and upsettin' this happy little family applecart.

I don't know what you're thinkin' and feelin' about us right now, Jody... but let me tell you this... you won't find no more loyal folks than these. Once they file their claim on you, they'll never turn their backs on you, no matter what. Pa here... he ain't never give up on me and he won't give up on you. Just sayin'..."

_Pa? _This was the first time ever Johnny'd spoken of his father that way... up until now he'd always addressed him as 'Murdoch' or 'Old Man'. In the hush that followed, Johnny retreated to his seat.

Murdoch turned his attention on the star attraction. "Son, would you like say something now... or would you rather have time alone to discuss it with your wife?"

**Jody stood slowly, **with an obvious nudge from Cat. Dressed as he was in the same loose white garments, in the muted light of the oil lamps, his resemblance to Johnny was undeniable. Despite his obvious reluctance, his speech was clear and delivered without hesitation, almost as if it had been rehearsed.

"It's true that I came here under false pretenses... and for exactly the reasons Scott stated. On the one hand I wanted to meet my real father... and my brothers. On the other, I was scared of what I'd find. I was afraid of being pulled into a situation even more dysfunctional than what I'd lived in all my life. I knew I couldn't expect to find a normal... a traditional... family—with a father and mother and children all born and raised together under the same roof. What I _did_ find was a strong non-traditional family... where the members are together because they _want _to be, not just because they _have_ to be... where no one's afraid of being whipped or beaten or degraded... where everyone's loved and respected.

I don't wish I could wake up tomorrow and forget everything that's happened in the past seven months... but I do wish it could all have been done differently without separation from my wife and child, and without all the other trouble that's come my way... or that I've caused.

I'm glad I got to meet all of you and I believe Cat and I both will enjoy getting to know each of you better... under more normal circumstances. In short, it's an honor and a privilege to be acknowledged a member of the Lancer clan. I can only hope_ I_ live up to _your_ expectations."

**Everyone stood up then.** Following a round of smiling, handshaking, laughing, hugging and backslapping, the three brothers withdrew and stood with their heads together, evidently exchanging brotherly confidences. The tall blonde was feeling slightly odd-man-outish and fishbelly whitish, looking down on his dark-haired, darker-skinned siblings.

"You speak as if you don't expect to be around here for long," Scott commented.

"I don't," Jody replied evenly. "I expect that marshal over there will be hauling me back to Los Angeles as soon as the doctor says I can travel. I'm trying not to think about it."

"Doc Sam's a good ole boy," Johnny said, "He'll drag it out long's he can get away with it."

"What I don't understand," Scott said, shaking his head, "is how you managed to shoot _and_ stab that man and him not be dead. But at least you don't have a murder charge hanging over your head."

"Attempted murder ain't a hangin' offense," Johnny offered. "What I heard, sounds like self-defense. Besides, Murdoch'll get you the best lawyers in the state. I wouldn't worry overmuch 'til you got somethin' to worry about."

"Easy for you to say... you don't have a federal marshal on your tail."

"Not in this state, anyway," Johnny retorted, grinning.

Scott scowled. "What do you mean, in _this_ state? Are there warrants elsewhere?"

"Could be, could be."

"Does Murdoch know about this? Is this something we need to worry about? I thought you were done with that... _brother._"

Johnny gave him a long, level look and softly drawled, "_I_ am... but _they_ ain't done with Madrid. I'll _always_ have something to worry about... _brother._"

Just for a fraction of a section, Scott glimpsed the infinite sadness and resignation behind those blue eyes...


	66. Chapter 66

_Chapter 66: _**AFTERMATH**

**Feeling as though a great weight** had been lifted from his shoulders only to be replaced by another, Murdoch made eye contact with Marshal Sammons, Sheriff Val and Doctor LaPierre. The family business might be sorted out, but the legal complications had yet to be addressed. Lifting a bottle of scotch and four shot glasses from the tray on the sideboard, he nodded for the two lawman and Paul to join him over in a corner away from prying ears.

"Gene, how soon do you expect to hear back from Los Angeles and Sacramento?" Murdoch asked Sammons. Although the Morro Coyo telegraph office wasn't open on Sundays, he'd prevailed on his long-time friendship with George Quinn to interrupt the operator's after-church nap to open up just for them.

Sammons stroked his mustache. "No one will be reading those messages until sometime late tomorrow afternoon, being as it takes all day Monday for those government imbeciles to settle in to a work week. I'd say no earlier than Wednesday morning. Tommy Bush is the county judge down in San Diego and he ain't no fool. He's a personal friend of mine so he'll make a quick decision and get right back to me soonest. Chances are excellent he'll go along with my recommendation, which is to leave the young man in your custody until a hearing can be arranged. That, unfortunately, could be several weeks down the road... possibly past my retirement date."

"But you'd still be able to serve as a witness?" Murdoch was clearly anxious.

"Certainly. Yes. Personally, from what I've seen and heard here myself—and from what I know of Ed Montero, I don't believe your boy is of a violent nature... or that he poses any danger to the community either here or there. Putting him behind bars will serve no useful purpose. That'll be my testimony. Your biggest problem will be getting past a psychiatric evaluation as to his sanity, but Paul here is your best bet by far."

Paul grinned deferentially. "Not to toot my own horn, but in that district I _am_ considered the foremost authority on criminal behavior... I believe Moran'll honor my request to be the examiner."

"What about change of venue?" Murdoch asked. "Do you think he'll go for that?"

"It depends on how backlogged his court is, and whatever evidence the Pinkertons have produced in the meantime. If extenuating circumstances can be proven, it's possible Moran could have himself temporarily reassigned to serve over a specific case in this district, but how that happens is above my pay grade. As to the other inquiries you requested... well, those may take a bit more time. There are no open warrants on Johnny Madrid in my district that I know of..."

Paul spoke again. "No use fretting over it right now, Murdoch. When you weren't looking I slipped Mister Quinn a few extra dollars to have his messenger make whatever extra trips are necessary to get messages out here as soon as they come in."

**Giving the menfolk their space,** Cat and Teresa migrated out to the rose garden, wine goblets in hand. There they claimed a bench facing the tiered fountain. A mild breeze carried the fragrance of the earliest bloomers—yellow multifloras espaliered against the stucco wall and a few staked floribundas. According to Teresa, Murdoch had over the years been steadily adding new varieties obtained during his travels, so that there was always something blooming nearly year-round.

"That went well, considering," Cat observed.

"I thought so, too," Teresa agreed. "Murdoch and Scott are adept at addressing audiences. Johnny, not so much. I'm not in a position to judge how well Jody did but he certainly seemed to have his thoughts together and had no problem expressing them. What did you think?"

"Frankly, I was a bit apprehensive at first," Cat admitted. "Considering everything that's happened to him, he could very easily have slipped into that other universe. It's happened before with less provocation. No doubt getting the three together in a non-combative arena helped lay the groundwork. Very astute move on your part."

"Thank you. I thought it was the right thing to do... so they could get to know one another."

"It was. You know... a good doctor has to be able to manage a hostile situation. You have that skill, Teresa. You can do this."

"I hope so... if I'm given the opportunity to go to school."

"What's standing in your way... besides being granted permission by your guardian?"

"Money for tuition, mainly. My father left me a small trust fund that I'll be able to get into when I'm twenty-one and out from Murdoch's guardianship, but I don't think it's enough to get me all the way through medical school... and then there's Murdoch. I really don't want to have to wait three more years to get started." Teresa sighed. "Don't get me wrong... I love Murdoch dearly... he's been like a father to me—but he can be very old-fashioned and set in his ways about what's right and proper. His idea of the ideal future for me is marrying Scott and staying right here, producing the next generation of Lancers."

Cat rolled her eyes

"Doctor Jenkins in my mentor. I've already received an acceptance letter from the eastern college I want to attend. We just have to convince Murdoch before fall terms begins..."

"I'll talk to him, if you like... I'll be here at least another week."

Teresa frowned. "Jody shouldn't travel for at least two or three weeks..."

"I know... and I hate having to leave him so soon, but... I have a young child at home... and my work..."

"You work? You have... er... a job?"

"I'm my stepfather's accountant. He owns Vista Montero winery and a couple of other small enterprises."

"I thought only men... I mean, how did you learn...?"

"Traditionally, yes... it's a male occupation. I had no special skills or talents but I was determined to make my own choices in life. For that I needed to have my own money, and I wanted to go to college. Fortunately for me, my mother and stepfather were in agreement that I should, and I did. I went to a small private liberal arts college... very progressive... in addition to the standard classical curricula, it also offered courses of a more utilitarian nature. I was always good with numbers and empirical data, so I focused on accountancy."

"How could you be married and pregnant and still go to school?"

Cat laughed. "Simple... no one knew except my roommate—Paul's wife, Marcia. And I was just starting to show when I graduated!"

"How are you able to keep house and work at the same time?"

"Just like the thousands and thousands of other women managing families and homes... and working right alongside their menfolk doing ranchwork or farmwork, or working in a store if that's the husband's trade. They're 'working'... they just don't get paid for it.

Something you'll have to face, Teresa, is discrimination—against women in the medical field as well as other male-dominated professions. _Becoming_ a doctor is much, much harder than becoming a bean counter like me... and _being_ one means being on call all hours of the day and night, every day of the week. You won't have a social life. Most likely it'll mean giving up any idea of marrying and having children until you're in your thirties, if at all."

"Are you trying discourage me?"

"Not at all. Just a medicinal spoonful of reality. You have a calling, Teresa... and there's a desperate need for more women physicians. You'd be shocked at the statistics... how many women suffer needlessly, or die from an easily remedied female condition... simply because they're too embarrassed to have some strange man looking up their privates!"

"Doctor Jenkins says the same," Teresa said. "I was leaning toward specializing in gynecology but he counsels general practice..."

"He's right. Specialty practice is fine in higher urban concentrations, but out here doctors are thin on the ground and general practice would be of greater use to the larger percentage of the populace. That's assuming your intention is to continue living out here and not in some big city."

"Of course I'll come back here... this is my home."

"I understand. I feel the same way about mine. No offense to your hospitality, but the sooner we can get back to our normal routine and sleep in our own beds, the better!"


	67. Chapter 67

_Chapter 67: _**DIFFERENT WORLD, DIFFERENT DRUMMER**

**The evening wound down** in general agreement that an early turn-in would be welcome—everyone was exhausted. Murdoch, Gabe McClanahan and Gene Sammons were enjoying pre-bedtime brandy and cigars in the greatroom. Maria Elena and her clean-up crew were efficiently tidying up the kitchen. Ron and Val had been pressed into service as temporary orderlies to attend Jody and Johnny and get them ready for bed. Having decided to wait until all was quiet before undertaking what she humorously described as 'ward rounds'—dressing changes and dispensing of medications—Teresa asked Cat if she would assist.

In Teresa's room, the two women had changed into flannel passionkiller nightgowns and chenille bathrobes while killing time waiting for the aides to report that the patients were in their night gear, ready for inspection. All the necessary supplies were already laid out on a tea trolley out on the gallery, including vials of laudanum and glasses of juice. Maria Elena's last task before closing down the kitchen was to bring up a pot of chamomile tea infused with honey and lemon.

**Seeing that Teresa was having difficulty** extracting all the pins holding her hairdo together, Cat volunteered to take it down for her. As she started methodically plucking out pins, placing them in an oval porcelain dish, she noted the odd expression on Teresa's mirrored reflection.

"Something on your mind?"

"It's really none of my business..." Teresa began tentatively, the faintest of flushes creeping up from her neckline.

"Seems to me," Cat said, "that as we're now sisters-in-law you should feel free to speak."

"It's... um... an awkward subject..." The flush reached the younger woman's jawline.

Cat raised an eyebrow. "For you... or for me?"

"Well... it's about you and Jody... and tonight?" Teresa's face was crimson. "Speaking as his doctor, sort of... I don't think it'd be a good idea... if... you know..."

Cat laughed and patted Teresa's shoulder. "Shall I make it easier for you... this time? I have no intention of sharing his bed tonight or until his shoulder heals. But, girl, you have to understand something... Another thing a doctor can't afford is embarrassment—for instance, when you have to tell a devoted husband that his wife won't survive another pregnancy. You'll have to be very clear—and emphatic—that he understands exactly what that means to him. And, you will have to discuss options with both husband and wife. That's just one example. I can probably think of others."

"Oh... that one's enough... thanks," Teresa hastily put in. "I must say I haven't given much thought to _that_ side of practicing medicine."

As Cat picked up the silver-backed hairbrush and commenced brushing, Teresa murmured, "I didn't know there were _options._"

Cat was floored. "Oh please! Surely _someone's_ told you the facts of life...?"

"Yes... of course. I've known all about that forever... I just didn't know there were options... to getting pregnant, I mean. Er... what sort of options...?"

"Some other time..." Cat was looking thoughtfully from one side of the room to the other. "Do all the bedrooms have connecting doors like this one?"

"Yes... and they can be locked from either side."

"Who's in the room next to Jody?" Cat finished braiding Teresa's hair into a single plait and looked around for a bit of ribbon to tie it off.

"That would be Ron. He and Jody became friends in camp."

"Very interesting, that. Jody doesn't make friends easily. How about if I swap rooms with Ron? That way I can leave the door open between Jody and me."

"That'll work. Let's take care of Scott first…"

Retightening the sashes of their robes, the two women exited the room, Teresa trundling the cart ahead of her. True to her word, Maria Elena had deposited on it a steaming teapot in a knitted cozy, along with cups and saucers.

**Teresa knocked at Scott's door.**

"Come in."

Cat held the door open so Teresa could push the cart through. Scott was ensconced in his oversized tufted leather armchair with an oil lamp on the dresser next to it, shedding light over his left shoulder onto the book that lay open on his rug-covered lap. He'd either got himself—or had been helped—into a crisp maroon-striped nightshirt that still had creases from the sadiron on it. If he was surprised to see two females in wrappers in his domain, he concealed it well—considering one of them yesterday was known to him as a Catholic sister and today as his sister-in-law. Teresa clucked disapprovingly and he gave her a disarming grin.

"You weren't supposed to have that arm out of its sling!" Obviously he'd had to have done so in order to get the nightshirt over his head. And it must have hurt.

"Couldn't you just for once have gone to bed _without_ a nightshirt, like Johnny?"

Scott gave her a one-shoulder shrug. "Old habits. And how would _you_ know what Brother John does or doesn't wear to bed, hmnnnnnnn?"

Teresa didn't rise to the bait. "Johnny doesn't wear underwear, either. Not if he can avoid it. How do you suppose I know _that?_"

"Um... lack of laundry?"

"Correct. Now let me see that shoulder."

"There's nothing to see."

"I'll be the judge of that!"

Teresa bent over and deftly unbuttoned the placket of the nightshirt so she could pull it aside to view... and prod... the damaged shoulder.

"Don't you even think of... owwwwww!" Scott yelped. "That hurt!"

"Sorry... just needed to feel if the bone's aligned right. Seems to be..."

"Then leave it alone!"

"If you insist on moving your arm too much, the bone'll pop out and then you'll have a big unsightly knot there after the bruises go away. Or the broken ends might not knit at all and then you'll have a real problem."

"Poke me again like that and you'll have a big unsightly bruise on your face!"

Teresa turned to Cat. "Don't mind him. He's all threat and no follow-through. He wouldn't dare hit me!"

Cat busied herself pouring tea and counting out drops of laudanum, but was intently following the interplay between the two. Scott was a stereotypically handsome man in his prime—a prize catch for any marriage-minded female. She also noticed how—when Teresa playfully but tenderly ruffled his hair—he tensed and allowed his smile to falter the tiniest bit. If for some reason Teresa was unable to attain _her_ dream and remained here for the foreseeable future, it was possible... no, probable... that at some point both would yield to an imagined obligation to make _Murdoch's_ dream come true. That would be a sad mistake. They were not suited to each other.

On the outside Scott Garrett Lancer may have assimilated himself into Western culture, but on the inside he remained what he was raised to be—a finely-polished product of the upper-crust Eastern class. When he chose a bride, she would be an exquisite beauty from that same stratum... who would last about a month out here before proceeding to make his life a living hell. But say he did marry Teresa? She might be happy, but that would mean Scott would be forever exiled from his Garrett relations... so he'd still be unhappy. And a perpetually unhappy man makes a miserable husband.

Cat kept her observations to herself as she and Teresa left Scott, already yawning and feeling the fuzzy effect of the laudanum. He assured them he could get into bed by himself when he was ready... and would as soon as he finished the chapter in his book.

**Exiting Scott's room **they stopped by the bathroom, leaving the cart on the gallery, to fill up a pitcher and a basin with warm water. Someone had thoughtfully replenished the fire in the tiny stove and left a pot of hot water on for the next user. When they came out, Val Crawford was hulking there with hounddog wrinkles furrowing his forehead.

Even knowing he'd been there to capture her husband, Cat had liked the man from the instant they were introduced—so homely he was actually cute, with an aw-shucks downhome demeanor and a gap-toothed grin, curly dark hair already receding from a high forehead, a raspy voice but a gentle manner. It wasn't easy visualizing him as sheriff of anything, much less a fearsome former gunslinger who used to ride in the company of Johnny Madrid.

When he saw Teresa he straightened up and a warm glow suffused his features through the worry. She went straight to him and held her hands out to him. He grasped them as lightly as though he were handling newborn kittens.

_Oh boy... _Cat was thinking._ This one's head over heels with her and she doesn't even know it. _

"Val... is there a problem with Johnny?"

"I think so... I ain't sure. That's why I was comin' to getcha..."

Cat was standing close enough that she could see Teresa making a concerted effort to not show alarm, taking a few deep breaths and forcing a pleasant expression on her face.

"We were just going in to see him... would you bring the cart for us?"

**Teresa glided the few feet **to Johnny's door, knocked twice and entered without waiting for an answer. Bolstered up in a nest of pillows, Johnny looked limp—like a boneless ragdoll. His shirtless torso glowed golden brown against the snowy white of the bedlinens. A straightback chair had been pulled up to the side of the bed. Newspapers were flung higgledy-piggledy over the foot of the bed.

"I was readin' out loud to him," Val informed them needlessly, "trying to cheer him up. He thinks it's funny when I mess up words 'cause I don't read so good."

Teresa patted Val on the arm. "Don't take it personally. Next time, make him read to you—he don't read so good either." Val grinned.

Johnny gave her an exaggerated glower. "Figured you'd wait until I was just about to go to sleep," he grumbled, "and _then_ come and bother me. I see you got a new nurse."

"Yup... this is Nurse Catriona and she's my strongarm, in case you're thinking of giving me any guff."

"Who? Me? Give you trouble? Wouldn't think of it!" Johnny was struggling to keep his tone light but his grin was too forced.

"Let's see that leg, then..."

They'd almost come to blows that morning when she'd told him to pull the covers down so she could get at his wounded leg. She'd had to turn her back while he pulled the counterpane aside and artistically bunched the sheet all around to prevent any unauthorized viewing.

"Sure thing!" Johnny threw the cover off. Teresa took one look and started snickering. He'd taken a pair of scissors to an old pair of longjohns and cut the legs off a little above mid-thigh. The snicker died when her focus shifted to the bandage on his leg, where a pinkish-brown stain was showing on the outer wrappings.

"Think you're pretty smart, don't you?" she commented, signaling to Val to draw the cart nearer.

"Oh... I don't hafta be that smart... just smarter than you!"

Cat chuckled. "I have to admit, I'm quite disappointed, John. As your father practically accused me of having a fling with you, I should be entitled to at least a peep at what I missed!"

Val and Johnny both turned red. Teresa choked out a chortle herself, if only to avoid making any sound of dismay as she began removing the outer layer of bandages. First, though, she slid a towel under his thigh to protect the sheet. Just that small movement brought a sheen of perspiration to Johnny's face.

"Is this what you came to me about, Val?"

The man nodded slowly. "Yessum. That and he's hurtin'. Won't say so but he is. When I was helpin' him to..." Val's eyes strayed downward toward the bed's dust ruffle and Teresa knew he was thinking about the thundermug underneath. "Anyways, when I was helpin' him sit up I thought he was gonna pass out on me."

She turned her head back to Johnny in time to catch him shaking his head negatively at his friend, as if to say 'shut up!'

"I know you don't want the laudanum, John, but please don't refuse it. There's no need for you to suffer like this."

"I... it don't hurt that bad..." he tried to argue weakly.

"Bullshit!" Teresa spat out, startling her patient. Teresa didn't use bad language and Murdoch had impressed both his sons with what he'd do if he ever heard either of them using it around her. She reached up and put a palm to his forehead.

"You don't seem to have a fever..." She stood up to pour water and carbolic solution in the basin on the washstand to sanitize her hands. In the meantime, Cat added a liberal dose of laudanum to a cup of tea and offered it to Johnny. His hands were trembling—she had to help hold it up to his mouth until it was emptied. He gave her a ghost of a smile.

"Y'all are gangin' up on me, ain'tcha? Is this what sister-in-laws do... gang up on a fella?"

"It's what we do, all right... get used to it."

Cat and Val stood by at the foot of the bed as Teresa removed the last binding. The saturated gauze pressure pad didn't stick to the wound as she lifted it away with forceps. Johnny's eyes were closed and he lay absolutely still as she sponged and dried the area which, though bruised, wasn't exhibiting any redness indicating infection. None of the stitches had torn completely but their integrity had been compromised by too much physical activity that day, thus the seepage.

Teresa was aghast. She wanted to cry and didn't dare... especially not with Cat looking on. This was all her fault for not insisting Johnny stay in bed. She shouldn't have allowed him to come downstairs... walking around, even with assistance... getting up and down from low seating positions... all these had put too much stress on the injured leg, no matter how straight he'd tried to keep it. Some flexion of thigh muscles was unavoidable. Too, she was put out with Murdoch. This conference of his could've waited a few more days.

Still struggling to keep her emotions in check, Teresa applied a new pressure pad... then realized she had a problem. In order to rewrap the leg, it would have to be lifted. This morning Ron had done that. But this morning Johnny hadn't been in so much pain, before he'd been up and hobbling around all day.

"Val... I need help here... I need you to hold his leg up straight so I can get around it with the binding."

Val came around to her side and put one hand under Johnny's knee. With the other under his ankle, he slowly elevated the leg until Teresa indicated she had enough working room. Johnny groaned but didn't open his eyes.

Teresa cut her eyes at Cat. "Good Lord. How much laudanum was in that tea?"

"Enough to put him out. Don't worry... I know how much is too much."

"He's almost out of it, all right."

When Teresa was done and at her direction, Val supported Johnny's head and shoulders while Cat whisked away the excess pillows. Eased down on just one pillow and tucked in for the night, Johnny was asleep before they finished gathering up their stuff and exiting the room. Val came out with them onto the gallery.

Again Teresa took his hands in hers while he looked down on her with wistful eyes.

"I really appreciate you looking out for Johnny tonight... don't forget to leave open the connecting door between you in case he needs help with... well... anything."

"I'll take care of him. Won't be the first time!"

"I'm putting you in charge of keeping him in bed all day tomorrow... or until Doctor Sam shows up. If that marshal thinks you need to be someplace else, you send him to me."

"If Marshal Sammons orders me to leave Johnny, I'm handin' in my badge!"

"Well... let's hope it doesn't go that far."

**Voices floated up the staircase.** Attaining the landing and bidding their host goodnight, Gabe and Gene turned left onto the gallery. Murdoch turned right... pulling up short at the sight of his bathrobed ward holding hands with the sheriff. Behind them stood his new daughter-in-law, also in her bathrobe, placing a basin full of bloody dressings on the cart.

Val immediately dropped Teresa's hands and turned bright red, as if wishing he could crawl under the cart.

"Ah... everything all right up here?" Murdoch inquired softly.

"Yes, Murdoch. Everything's great. Just fine," Teresa griped. "A little bit too much commotion for Johnny, maybe. He'll have to be on complete bedrest for a few days."

"Did Doctor Jenkins say so?"

Teresa drew herself up to her full five feet two inches and glared at her guardian.

"I say so!"

Murdoch actually took a step backward, blinking. "Oh... oh... I suppose you're right. Should I... er... look in on him?"

"No. He's asleep now and he really needs to rest."

"Well then... I'll just say goodnight." Murdoch hustled to the end of that leg of the gallery and disappeared into his own room just as Paul arrived on the landing, also calling out a goodnight before hooking a left toward his room.

The women trundled the cart into the bathroom to empty the basin and obtain more hot water before moving on to their next patient, where Ron had returned after swapping out his and Cat's rooms.

**"****How's he doing, Ron?" **Cat asked before opening the door.

"He fell asleep pretty quick soon's he got in the bed. You'll have to wake him up."

It took a considerable amount of urging to rouse Jody, cranky and protesting, at first resisting Teresa's attempts to undo the bindings at his shoulder. With Ron grasping his good arm, Cat seized his right wrist and held it immobile. With her right hand she squeezed his mouth into a fishy pucker.

"Jordan... behave yourself! This will only take a few minutes and you can go back to sleep. Nod 'yes' if you understand me."

That seemed to get his attention and he nodded. Teresa had to muffle a snort of laughter, as did Ron. Getting his face back, Jody worked his jaws.

"You don't have to pinch my head off!"

"I'll do worse if you don't sit still," Cat threatened.

"All right, all right!"

Teresa was pleased to find very little seepage under the gauze pad but changed it anyway. She worked as quickly as she could while Cat held his attention, sensing that wasn't going to last for much longer.

Cat was looking into Jody's eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Headache. Lights..."

"Too bright?" The curtains were closed and, anyway, it was dark outside. The only light in the room came from the lamp on the bedside table, from behind Jody.

"Yeah."

"Problem?" A terse question from Teresa.

"Are you done?"

"Yup..."

"Wait for me on the gallery... okay, Ron... let's get him down." Teresa quickly put everything back on the cart and trundled out. Together Cat and Ron reinstalled Jody in the bed, flat on his back, and pulled the quilt up to his chin. Ron was just backing away when Jody shot an arm out and clutched Cat's arm, speaking clearly but drowsily.

"Stay with me, Cat... please?"

"No, sweetie... not tonight. I'll be in the next room and I'll leave the door open. If you need me, just call and I'll come to you."

" 'Kay." He was already drifting off.

Cat extinguished the oil lamp, opened the connecting door and joined the others outside the room.

"Ron... thanks for your help. I think it's safe for you to turn in now."

The tall boy nodded briefly, courteously bid them goodnight and sauntered off.

Teresa cocked her head. "I don't know about you but I'm not yet sleepy enough for bed."

"Me neither..."

"Up for some girltalk?"

"Sure thing!"

"Come with me then, if you think it's all right to leave Jody."

"Oh... he'll probably sleep until morning and then he'll be fine... or not..."

"Or not?"

"Tell you in a bit... are we going to your room?"

"Not exactly... follow me..."

**Teresa's bedroom had one feature** the other corner bedrooms did not... a small door accessing a narrow staircase to a rooftop conservatory. French doors to a small terrace bounded by a chest-high wall with a solid wooden door, currently barred, leading to an outside staircase. Fishing a bottle of estancia red wine, a cork puller and two goblets out of a breakfront cabinet cleverly disguised as a bookcase, Teresa marched out to the terrace after telling Cat to pick up two small Indian blankets folded on a chair by the doors.

Setting the goblets and bottle on a low service table between two lounge chairs, Teresa uncorked the wine and filled the goblets. Wrapped in the blankets against the cool air and nestled into the lounge chairs, they contemplated the velvet sky above in companionable silence for a few minutes. A waxing gibbous moon hung low on the horizon, with only the brightest of stars punctuating the blackness.

"You started to say something about Jody in the morning... not being... what?"

"Having a headache is usually a prelude to something... an event, a spell—whatever you want to call it. Sensory dysfunction is another aspect of his condition—extreme sensitivity to light, noise, crowds... sometimes smell, taste or touch. But not always... which makes it difficult, almost impossible to predict since there's no consistency. He may awaken tomorrow feeling normal... or he might wake up and simply not be in there." Cat pointed to her head.

"Doesn't that scare you? I'd be terrified!"

"I'm used to it. He hasn't done that in a while... not for several years. But it's always there in the back of my mind that it _could_ happen."

"Forgive me for saying this," Teresa began, "but it seems to me that being married to someone like Jody must be... at times... like being married to a child. I don't see how you manage."

"It can seem that way," Cat agreed. "It's a constant challenge. Jody's not mentally defective or retarded—he just has a unique perspective on life and a different level of consciousness. He communicates differently from most people. _At times_—but not always—Jody lives in an alternate reality from the rest of us. People don't understand this because most of the time he passes for normal. When he displays aberrant behavior of any kind, they're surprised and upset. People also don't understand the difference in our ages... or why I married him. They see some sort of perversion there, or ignorance.

"I must confess... I don't understand, either... why you chose him, I mean. Murdoch told me he was only sixteen and you were twenty-one. How did you determine a sixteen-year-old boy would grow up to be the right man for you?"

"That's a complex question with no easy answer. I'd known him since he was three. I knew I loved him when he was fourteen. I told my mother I was going to marry him. She didn't take me seriously either... but she did say, 'Love isn't _finding_ the right person... it's _being_ the right person.' What she meant was, first I should be sure I was the right person for _him_, not the other way around... although I was already convinced I was. I knew I could shape myself around his world... and that I was the _only_ one who _could_."

"Still... a husband with a mental problem... I don't know that I could live with that."

"What about a husband who's a good sober Christian six days a week, then comes home Saturday night full of drink and bad temper. Beats the shit out of you and the kiddies then goes to church the next day and repents. You don't call that a mental problem?"

"That's different..."

"No it isn't. And let me ask you this: If you loved someone who'd lost an arm or a leg in the war—or was blinded, would you stop loving him because of his disability?"

"I'd like to think not..."

"I'm not saying our partnership is perfect. There are things that puzzle and disturb me—Jody attacking Ed, for instance... he's never been that aggressive. And that ear business at the camp. He'll fight to defend himself or protect someone else... but he's never instigated violence before. Perhaps it's some manifestation of emerging adulthood I'm just not familiar with. I know it seems odd... but sometimes I forget he's still a teenager. Outside of school, the only other teenage boys I've been around are my stepbrothers and they're still very young and boisterous... nothing at all like Jody ever was."

"Don't you worry that your son might have inherited this... whatever it is?"

"Yes, of course... but so far I haven't identified anything unusual. It's different from child to child, we're told. Some doctors believe it's a genetic trait, others don't. Murdoch and I discussed this on the trip up. He thinks Johnny displays some of the same traits as Jody."

"Johnny?" Teresa was incredulous.

"That's what he said. Wouldn't know, myself. Paul would be in a better position to judge, if he gets to spend enough time with Johnny and Jody before he leaves. Would you believe Paul and Jody have never met, although Paul's wife Marcia is my best friend?"

The half moon was riding high in the sky by the time the Lancer women reached the dregs of the bottle and the limits of their endurance.


	68. Chapter 68

**• • • • • ****MONDAY, MAY 8 • • • • •**

_Chapter 68: _**THE BREAKFAST CLUB**

**Another sunrise... **Murdoch, Teresa, Cat and Jelly were sitting at the kitchen table savoring their first coffees of the morning in mostly silent rumination of the week that was. Maria Elena and Inés were padding about gathering materials for breakfast. Chucho and Chico appeared at intervals, bringing in pails of milk, baskets of eggs and firewood. Without needing admonishment from their grandmother, the usually ebullient youngsters were doing their best to not disturb the unnatural peace and quiet prevailing in the house.

"I should be getting back up to the camps..." Murdoch mused, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "With Scott and John out of commission..."

"I'm sure Cipriano has everything under control," Teresa said. "If there were any problems, you would have heard by now." She was attired for the classroom, with her hair pulled back at the nape and tied off with black velvet ribbon.

"I know he does, honey, but it doesn't do for the _patrón_ not to put in an appearance at all. Word'll get around that I'm getting old and soft. I'm not worried about the loyalty of our own people... it's all those others who don't live here. It's human nature to take advantage wherever weakness is shown. That's why I need to get out there, show 'em I'm still boss even if I am old."

"You're not _that_ old! But you're not _young_, either, Murdoch. As long as you're having to use that stick you don't need to be getting back on a horse!" Teresa objected.

Murdoch ignored her. "On the other hand... I feel like I should spend some personal time with the boys. And I'm not sure it's a good idea to go off and leave you with... with all this mess on your hands."

"Excuse me? What mess might that be? Everyone's being fed and has a place to sleep. The ill and injured are being tended... they won't be mobile for days yet. No one can do anything or make plans until that marshal hears from his office. Doctor Jenkins said he'd be back out here today..." Teresa's voice had risen an octave in indignation.

Murdoch made a placatory gesture and grinned. "Now, now... calm down. I wasn't criticizing your domestic prowess or your doctoring ability. I'm amazed at how well you've coped these past few days... astonished. But I worry that you're taking on too much... a girl your age should be having more free time to enjoy... well... female activities..."

"Such as what?" Teresa challenged. "Seems to me I've got all the female activities I can handle! And don't forget... it's Monday... I'll have class in a couple of hours..."

"I meant things like... oh... shopping, visiting friends... stepping out with beaus... going to dances... those kinds of things. You're doing a splendid job of running the household, Maria Elena says so all the time. And I know it's been a huge relief to her, having you share the responsibilities... but..."

"But what? I'm happy here, Murdoch... doing exactly what I want to do, and being where I want to be... I wouldn't want to be anywhere else... except maybe..." Her voice trailed off.

"Except maybe... what?"

"Except maybe going to school... to become a doctor. That's the only reason I'd want to leave."

Murdoch stared down into his coffee cup, not meeting her eyes. "I know," he muttered. "We'll talk about that... soon... just not right now."

"Is that a promise... or are you just putting me off... again?"

"No... it's a promise. But I'm sure you must agree... with everything as unsettled as it is..."

Teresa sat up straight, willing him to face her squarely. "I'll hold you to it. As soon as all this is settled. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Now... about you going back out to the camps..."

**Jelly had been silent all this time.** Now he interrupted. "Kin I say somethin' here?"

The other two blinked and turned toward him, having forgotten he was present.

"How's about if our doctor lady here agrees to let you go if'n you take the buggy instead a ridin'?"

"Jelly... the buggy wouldn't hold up on the tracks between the camps," Murdoch said, shaking his head.

"It'd hold up as well as any a the supply wagons, you take yer time gettin' there."

"Do we have any harness animals to spare?"

"Next wagon comes in... which should be later this mornin'... we'll take their nags an' send 'em back out with mules."

"I supposed that would work," Murdoch grumbled. "Would that suit you, Mademoiselle Doctor? If I drive, instead of ride?"

"Yes, that would suit. But only if you take one of the boys with you, like Agosto."

Murdoch sighed. "I still don't know about leaving you with..."

"For heaven't sake, Murdoch... we'll be just fine. Nothing's going to happen here for a few more days anyway. And if we need to, we'll send a rider out to get you."

**One by one the mobile upstairs contingent** drifted downstairs to join the kitchen table gang. When the table reached maximum capacity, Maria Elena chased them and their plates into the dining room, along with a startled Vicente who'd just wandered in to get the day's instructions from the _patrón_. Amid general conversation, dispersal plans gradually evolved.

Murdoch would be leaving after lunch to spend a few days visiting the camps. Vicente and Gabe would be going back with him—the mountain man had just been passing through to begin with and had business in Spanish Wells. Ron would be released to return to his original post at Condor.

Now that Marshal Sammons no longer required Val's assistance, the sheriff of Green River would be returning to his post there. As Sammons himself was obliged to hang around twiddling his thumbs until further instructions arrived from his superiors, he appealed to management (meaning Teresa) to find some useful occupation for him.

As Paul had work and family awaiting him in Los Angeles, he'd be leaving on the Saturday stage out of Morro Coyo. Until then, he cheerfully volunteered to serve as Johnny's personal minder, needing only to move from his original bedroom to the one vacated by Val. (Besides, he later confided to Murdoch privately, that would afford him the journalistic opportunity—which they'd discussed earlier—to explore the world of the gunfighter.)

Cat vacillated between staying with Jody for moral support... or journeying home with Paul to be with her son. Work-wise, this was a quiet time of the year at the winery... inbetween planting and harvesting... so that wasn't a consideration. Her decision depended on developments in the next few days.

Vicente and Jelly strolled off to prepare and provision the buggy for overland travel, making sure there were tools and spare parts in the event of breakdown. Ron, Gabe and Val went upstairs to gather their gear before seeing to their mounts.

As it happened, Eugene Sammons was an avid gardener and rose fancier, planning to go into the greenhouse business upon his retirement from law enforcement. On her way to the one-room school at the edge of the apple orchard, Teresa took him to meet their head groundsman, Jorje Perez. The old master gardener was delighted to meet a fellow rose aficionado. Equipped with secateurs and trug, 'Señor Gino' was led away to romp through their rose garden and greenhouse to gather whatever slips and cuttings he desired.


	69. Chapter 69

_Chapter 69: _**HORSES OF DIFFERENT COLORS**

_**Chapter 69: **_****HORSES OF DIFFERENT COLORS****

**As the breakfast club dispersed,** it occurred to Murdoch he'd hardly spent any quality time alone with his sons in weeks. He pulled out his pocket watch—several hours yet before he and the others would be heading out to Condor. Breakfast trays had just gone upstairs to Johnny and Jody—he'd give them some time to finish eating first. Scott, on the other hand, was already down here and available. Murdoch caught him exiting the facility down the hall and asked if he'd like to walk over to the foaling shed to view the new arrivals—a good excuse for a private conversation. His oldest son looked to be in good spirits and was, as usual, impeccably dressed. Even stubble-faced with his right arm in a sling he managed to look jaunty and dashing.

The mares and foals had been turned out to their dedicated paddock. Father and son leaned over the top rail to admire the two bay colts and palomino filly. Never having been much good at small talk, Murdoch resorted to the mundane...

"How're you feeling, Scottie?"

"Not my first broken bone, sir. Snapped my left humerus when I was twelve. Foxhunting in Virginia with Grandfather and Aunt Mildred. My horse balked at a jump."

"Foxhunting." Just the tone of his father's voice uttering the one word spoke volumes about how Murdoch Lancer felt about that bloodthirsty sport.

"Yes... it's what passes for entertainment in the cream of society," Scott uttered drily. "It wasn't so much fun six years later when I was there fighting Johnny Reb."

It was difficult for Murdoch to envision his eldest son in uniform, leading a cavalry charge. Scott's military service was a topic they'd not yet explored. Murdoch himself had maintained strict neutrality during the war years, being one of the few registered Republicans in the Democrat-dominated San Joaquin Valley. Other than that, he'd had no interest in politics or in the secession attempt. His part in the conflict had been to supply beef and horses to state militia.

"Sir, I feel badly that we—Johnny and I—let you down this roundup," Scott was saying. "If Jody hadn't come along..."

"_The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley_," Murdoch quoted, summoning up an accent he'd conquered into submission three decades ago.

"Robert Frost, 'To a Mouse', seventeen eighty something," Scott didn't hesitate to throw back, to his father's admiration.

"There's always next year..." Murdoch said, adding, "... if you boys are still around, that is."

"Can't speak for John, sir, but I'm planning on it."

Murdoch risked a sideways glance. Scott was grinning at him. "In less than a year I've been shot, beat up, stomped, bit, gored, kicked in the bollocks, burned on the backside... and now I have a broken collar bone. Why would I want to go back to Boston? Life's much more interesting here!"

"Never a dull moment, seems like," Murdoch agreed, "not since you boys arrived, anyway."

Scott gave his father a playful punch in the arm with his good hand. "Oh well now... John and I can't take _all_ the credit! Any possibility of more 'surprises' like the last one?"

Murdoch shook his head. "I hope not... this last was shock enough. But as you've brought it up..."

"I didn't think you brought me out here just to look at horses."

"No... what I want to know is how you really feel about this unexpected brother..."

"Sir, I thought I made myself clear yesterday."

"How much of that was merely diplomacy and good breeding, I wonder? How do you think this will affect the family in the long run..."

Scott chewed his bottom lip. "It's been difficult enough adjusting to the one brother I never knew I had—to acquire... oh, I don't know... a feeling of brotherliness? Now I can't imagine _not_ having Johnny as a brother. I expect in time I'll come to feel the same way about Jody. Of course, it'll be different since he won't be living with us. And since, as you've said, he and his wife are financially independent, it won't affect our family business arrangement at all. Or will it?"

"No, our equal partnerships stand unaltered."

**"****I'm thinking, too, you're pleased** about having a grandson."

Murdoch smiled, thinking of that pretty little boy who looked so much like Johnny had at that age, which jogged memories both pleasurable and painful.

"I hope you and John both will be providing me with grandchildren aplenty in years to come."

"Just not any time soon," Scott agreed. "But when it happens, we'll need a lot more house space. Isn't it about time you gave up that shrine, Murdoch?" Scott spoke gently. "It's creepy... like Miss Haversham's house in _Great Expectations_. I know you've read that—there's a bound copy in the library."

Murdoch didn't answer for a long time. Finally, "Who told you?"

"Teresa and Maria Elena both did. And it's an open secret among your friends. They all think it's unhealthy..."

"None of their business," Murdoch growled. "It's _my_ house."

"Correction, sir... it's _our_ house. It belongs to all four of us equally. You wrote that into the partnership agreement yourself."

"Does John know?"

"No. He still thinks it's all furniture storage or rooms awaiting renovation. But he'll find out some day and he'll be spooked."

"What do you suggest I do with it?"

"Start opening it up, one room at a time. Have Maria Elena and the girls do it, quietly. He'll probably never notice or think it's just long-neglected restoration going on."

"I'll think on it."

"No... you need to do it. Soon. Leave yesterday behind, Murdoch. You brought us here with the expectation of our making our future here. If that future is to include wives and children, we don't need a reminder of a failed marriage hanging over our heads like the Sword of Damocles."

"You're right. I know you're right."

"An even better option would be to show it to him... explain it to him," Scott persisted. "Make him understand that you love him—that you've _always_ loved him—and that you've forgiven his mother for what she did. That it's time to set free her ghost. She may not have been much of a human being, or a mother... but she was _his_ mother. She was all he had until you."

Murdoch was overwhelmed with his son's profundity. God, he was getting maudlin in his old age!

"Well, I didn't come out here to talk about John, either. It was you I was worried about."

Scott's eyes widened. "Me? Why would you worry about me? Seriously, I'm more content, more... complete... here than I ever was back in Boston."

Scott extended a hand and Murdoch thought he was offering to shake. Instead, his son used his one good arm to envelop him in a bear hug. "This is my _home_ now, Father..."

**Murdoch was still reeling with emotion** when they reentered the house and Scott excused himself to see about what might be needed with the supply wagon. He went to sit at his big desk in the greatroom but couldn't sufficiently organize his thoughts to deal with accounts. Taking out his watch again, he figured it time to go upstairs and visit with Johnny.

Pausing at the top of the landing, Murdoch could hear voices... in tones too low to distinguish words. Turning right onto the gallery and past the bathroom, Murdoch stopped at the open door to Johnny's room, knocking lightly at the door frame. Two dark, curly heads turned toward him. Johnny was sitting up in bed and Paul was slouched in the armchair, legs crossed, with a sheaf of ruled paper on a lapdesk and pen in hand. A tray with the remains of Johnny's breakfast sat on the dresser.

"Is this a private party... or may I join you?" Murdoch was slightly irritated at being deprived of alone time with his son, at the same time sensing that the doctor's presence and apparent rapport with Johnny might ease an otherwise awkward interval.

"It ain't private." Not exactly a welcome, but not a discouragement either. As soon as Murdoch entered the room, Paul uncrossed his legs and made to stand up.

"Nah, Paul... you stay... please?"

"I don't want to interrupt..." Murdoch interjected hastily. He'd been about snag the straightback chair over near where Paul was sitting so Johnny wouldn't have to crane his head from side to side.

The father politely inquired as to how the son was feeling this morning, which was a permissible and expected question. The son allowed as he'd not had the best of nights but was feeling considerably better. What was not permissible were frank inquiries as to said son's mood or state of mind... which were often nigh impossible to gauge. This was something the father would have deduce for himself.

Murdoch also couldn't ask, outright, what his son and visitor had been discussing when he'd walked in... or the content, in a stack on a side table, of notepaper covered in the tidy, compact handwriting of a scholar.

Johnny was nodding his head slightly, as if making up his mind about something.

**"****I was tellin' Paul here about the first time** I fired a shotgun. You gonna sit or what?"

"I'll sit... thank you." _Hello... this is unprecedented!_ Johnny rarely revealed any anecdotes concerning his past life. That he would so readily do so to a stranger was unsettling.

"So, like I was sayin', Paul, the damned thing was taller than me. I could barely hoist 'er up... but—you know, when you're ten years old and scared shitless you can do most anything. I was aimin' to blow his balls off but I couldn't hold the barrel up that high..."

"What were you doing with a shotgun at ten years old?" Murdoch couldn't help himself.

"One of Mami's friends left it. That's what she called 'em—her 'friends'. Mostly they was drunk, always leaving stuff behind... knives, guns. I'd find 'em an' hide 'em. She didn't know what all I had.

"When he come through the door hollerin' he was gonna whip me again, I closed my eyes an' squeezed the trigger... needed two fingers to do it. Recoil blew me backwards all the way across the room and against the stove so hard the flue come apart an' dumped soot all over me. Bruised my shoulder so's I couldn't use that arm for a week."

Murdoch was beyond appalled—a ten-year-old opening fire on a grown man at point blank range? He had to ask.

"Was he the... ah... the first man you killed, Johnny?"

"Didn't kill 'im. Took out both knees, though. Any more beatin' on women an' kids he was plannin' on doin', he'd hafta do it from a wheelchair." _Said without inflection, without a shred of remorse for crippling another human being._

"What happened then," Paul was asking.

"Mami was spittin' fire... said he was her best-payin' friend and now we had to leave town 'cause he was the sheriff an' we'd both go to jail. She promised me when we got to someplace safe she was gonna blister my hide for causin' her all that trouble. She had to yell so's I'd hear 'cause he was layin' there in the doorway screamin'."

"And did she?" Paul asked casually, pausing in mid-scribble.

"Oh yeah. Wasn't the first time, though... or the last. After that, any time one of her friends got too rough with her... or with me, I made sure he paid for it... 'cause I _could_, y'know? Word got out it was dangerous to mess with Maria Marín—you might get yourself real dead..."

"Is that where you learned... er... how to use a gun?" Murdoch asked.

"No. That came much later. I was too small... my hands were still too small to handle a pistol. Not too small for a knife, though..."

"Murdoch..." Paul began. "I hope you don't mind my making a suggestion... and that is... letting Johnny continue his narrative uninterrupted. What we're doing here is what we psyche types call 'stream of consciousness' rather than story-telling... so if you could, save your questions until later?"

"Oh... oh yes... of course... please continue, John."

"Well, the friends quit comin' around... just new men who didn't know no better. The money dried up. We kept havin' to move to smaller an' smaller towns, where didn't nobody know us. Livin' went from bad to worse. Half the time we starved. I didn't understand, then... that I was the reason. But she knew. She _knew_.

"She started leaving me at whatever orphanage happened to be handy. 'Just for the day', she'd say, an' then vamoose. If it was a Catholic orphanage the sisters were real good to me... got a bath an' a haircut, clean clothes, three squares a day... but after a week or so I'd figure Mami wasn't comin' back so I'd take off lookin' for her. Never did take more'n a week or to find her.

"Last time, took almost a year to track her down—back in Matamoros where her and Murdoch'd met . Wished now I hadn't of. I was fourteen years old. I'd learned to use a pistol an' was gettin' good at it. She wasn't pretty no more... she was drunk—didn't even know me. Guess I'd changed a lot in that year. She offered herself to me for two dollars. I went outside the cantina an' threw up in the water trough. Then I got on my horse an' rode off.

"About a week later I went back, thinkin' maybe to get Mami outta there, outta the life, to some place she could rest up an' learn to live decent. I was too late. She was already in the ground. Some officer an' gentleman from the garrison across the river in Brownsville beat 'er up an' left her bleedin' on the cantina floor. Only doctor in town—a white man—he refused to come. Sisters at the mission took care of her until she died. The _Madre Superiora_ told me she didn't suffer much... she never woke up. They gave her a proper burial.

"A month after that I went by Matamoros again, talked to some folks. Everybody knew about it but what did they care? Just another whore. A half a dozen men 'sides the barkeep stood around an' watched it happen. Didn't lift a finger 'cept for the barkeep what left to get the doctor. I hung around to find out their names. They all disappeared... 'cept that barkeep. Strange thing about that cantina... it burned down not too long after that. Only two bodies were found in the ashes—that cavalry captain an' that doctor. Those seven men... those were my first kills with a gun.

"Took a job with a rancher needed a couple of enforcers. Told him I was sixteen. Don't know that he believed me but he took me on anyway... me an' this other kid, Jess Harper—Texas boy, little older than me. That was the first time I hired out my gun for money. We done what we set out to do... killed five men in the doin'... he got three an' I got two, near as we could figure. Easy money for me... dangerous, but easy."

**At the last interruption **Johnny had turned his gaze out the open window to the mountains in the distance, and kept it there... not looking at either Paul or Murdoch. The entire soliloquy had been rendered in a flat, dry monotone, with no alteration in his expression. Murdoch was frozen to the core. That young man—his son—had spoken with the detachment of a cold-blooded killer, as if he were reading something from a dime novel rather than relating a pivotal event in his life.

Murdoch turned his head far enough to catch Paul's eyes when he lifted them from whatever he was recording. Paul gave him a tiny negative nod and a furtive finger to the lips. _Don't speak. _As if he could. The recitation had left him disturbed... and speechless... on so many levels.

Finally Johnny brought his head around, focusing on Paul. "Does that answer your question? How I lost my soul?"

"It does, yes. Thank you for answering it. And I'd like you to take heart in the knowledge that yours is hardly a unique story. I've heard worse... much worse. And Murdoch... just to clarify, I did not ask Johnny about the state of his soul, but how he came to be a gunfighter. You look as though you've not heard this story before..."

He could speak after all. "I haven't. John's never told it before."

Paul lifted an eyebrow and looked to the son. "Is this true... you've never told him what happened to your mother... and you?"

Johnny grinned at his father, but there was no mirth in it. "He never asked."

"And why is that, Murdoch?" Paul was guiding this delicate turning point in the father-son relationship though they didn't know it.

"It's not that I didn't want to know..." Murdoch began. "Ever since he got here, John's been circumspect about his past... and I've tried to respect his privacy by not asking too many questions. The subject of his mother seemed to be strictly off-limits, so I've let it rest, hoping that eventually he'd trust me enough to volunteer it of his own accord. I have to admit... I'm baffled as to why he'd open up so readily to a stranger before his own family..."

"That's easy enough to understand, Murdoch... I'm an outsider—my opinion doesn't matter to John one way or another. But you... and Scott and Teresa... you're _family._ Your good opinion matters very much. They say blood is thicker than water but in my experience that isn't necessarily so. I've encountered many instances where a family's condemnation of their black sheep was harsher than any jury of his peers. Even sadder than the man who has no family is the one who's been cast out of his."

**"****So now you know. **Whaddya think of your little boy now?" Johnny's challenge was tinged with belligerence.

Murdoch stood then, fighting back tears, and stepped to the side of the bed where he towered over its occupant.

"I think... I should have tried harder to find you. I wish—with all my heart—that I could've spared you... both of you... those terrible years. But it was her choice to leave, not mine. I loved her. I tried to give her everything... everything that I would have given Catherine had she lived. Maybe it was too much for her to try to live up to. I can't undo the past, John... or even make up for it. All I can do is ask you to try to put all that behind you and accept a happier future here... and the love of your family."

Murdoch really wanted to bend down and embrace Johnny as he'd earlier done with Scott, but that would have been too awkward to accomplish. Instead, he took John's right hand in both of his and squeezed. Freeing one hand, he rumpled his son's hair then smoothed it back

Paul had been keeping an eagle eye on Johnny's visage and body language during this exchange, watching it play out from hostile reservation to relaxed relief. He silently congratulated himself on having achieved two goals—having got a young man to articulate his worst actions and loosen its hold on his conscience, and getting a father to express his unconditional acceptance of that son, warts and all. His intuition was telling him that this unlikely family would knit itself together in time, and that John Madrid Lancer would find his soul again. Moments like these, few as they were, were what made his work worthwhile.

**With that aura of acceptance** hanging in the air, Murdoch informed Johnny that he would be gone for a few days and asked that he _please_ listen to Teresa and Doctor Jenkins. It was in everyone's best interest that he recover as quickly as possible... the ranch needed him. The _family_ needed him. Johnny promised to be on good behavior.

Murdoch stepped out onto the gallery and turned right, almost running into Cat lounging against the wall. In her slippered feet, they wouldn't have heard her coming. She made a shushing gesture, pointing down the gallery toward his room at the corner and walking toward it. He opened the door and stood back to let her enter first, then closed the door gently.

"You were eavesdropping!" He accused, wondering how long she'd been there.

"_Reus tamquam mandatum,_" she replied tranquilly. "Guilty as charged."

"Did you...?"

"I did. Yes. Everything. It's a chilling story, and a sad one. As bad or worse than Jody's. At least he didn't grow up poor and forced into a life of violence. Pilar wasn't a bad woman. Terribly foolish and misguided, if anything. She should have stuck with you."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence. Were you... uh... looking for me?"

"I thought you might be planning to see Jody next and I wanted to talk to you before you go in there."

"Oh? Something wrong?"

"Yes... and no. He's what you might call 'not quite himself' at the moment..."

"Away with the faeries, is he?"

"Come again?"

"That's what we used to say in the Old Country... when someone was having an out-of-body experience."

Cat laughed. "I see what you mean... and yes, he's having what _we_ call an 'episode'... a blackout. It came on this morning."

"And you can laugh about this?"

She sobered instantly. "No... but it beats crying. Physically, he's doing well... you can speak to him if you like, but don't expect him to respond. And please... don't talk loudly or make any sudden moves. Come on, then..."

They slipped out onto the gallery and down two doors, Murdoch trying to tiptoe in his boots. Jody was sitting in a plush armchair facing the window, feet tucked up underneath him and both arms cradled to his chest. His view was of the Sierra Madre range to the east, not the coastal mountains that Johnny had been seeing. He didn't give any indication of noticing their arrival.

Cat went to him, kneeling in front of the chair and rubbing his knee. "Honey, Murdoch's here to see you. Do you want to talk to him?" Getting no response, she stood up and faced Murdoch.

"See what I mean? Don't be alarmed... this has happened before, many times when he was much younger... just not in the past couple of years. Let's leave the room, shall we?"

Outside on the gallery, Murdoch swiped his face with his shirtsleeve, noticing that when Cat closed the door, she locked it. She asked him to go back to his room and lock the connecting door from his side. "I've locked the connecting doors from the other side as well."

Back in the gallery, "We try not to talk _about_ Jody where he might hear, as we're never entirely sure just how cognizant he is or isn't of what's going on around him."

She took Murdoch's arm and they strolled back the way they'd come, past the murmur of voices coming through Johnny's closed door, and descended the staircase together.

**The double doors at the foyer** had been chocked open to allow fresh air to sweep through the house. Murdoch and Cat drifted out to the front portico, with a grand panorama spreading before them of Cantua Valley held in the embrace of Oak Ridge and Vista Cielo Ridge. In the far distance—past the hay meadows and fields and rolling hills, beyond clumps of trees and the swampy drainage of Cantua Creek—could be seen the flat expanse of California's vast central valley, the San Joaquin. On the far horizon rose the purplish-blue peaks of the Sierra Madre, some still snow-capped.

"I can see why you love this land. It's magnificent."

"You could stay, you know... I mean, live here—the three of you."

"I appreciate the offer, but the sooner we get back to our own world, the better."

"I won't get to see my grandson grow up," Murdoch lamented. "You'll have to come visit as often as you can manage..."

They both knew that until rail service was established between San Francisco and Los Angeles, the two hundred fifty miles that lay between them would preclude frequent visits.

"I imagine I'll be the one carrying on most of the correspondence from our side. I'll see to it that you get photographs from time to time. Perhaps you could do the same? I want Joshua to grow up knowing his people... and his real grandfather."

Murdoch smiled. "You're an extraordinary woman, Catriona Lancer. I'd be the most fortunate father-in-law in the world if Scott and John were to marry as well as Jody."

On impulse, Cat stood on tiptoe and kissed Murdoch on the cheek. "And you're a very special man, Murdoch Lancer. Jody doesn't yet know how lucky he is you turned out to be his real father... but he will."

Murdoch blushed and hemmed and hawed. "About Jody... how long will... uh..."

"That I can't say. Could be just a few hours... or more."

"Is it safe to leave him alone? He won't jump out the window or anything, will he?"

"He's not in any danger and I won't be gone long. Locking the door is just a precaution. When he was a small child he'd wander off and be lost sometimes for days. Couldn't recall where he'd been. Nowadays he usually snaps out of it after a few minutes, unaware of having blacked out."

"Is he... does Jody know he has this... um... condition?"

"Absolutely. We've studied it together. If he happens to come around while he's alone in the room and finds he's locked in, he'll know why. It used to scare him but he's learned to deal with it."

"Why do you think this is happening now? Luisa used the term 'trigger'... what was the trigger here?"

"That ties in with something else I wanted to talk with you about..."

"Oh?"

"Ever heard the saying, 'slowly, slowly, catchee monkey'?"

"Can't say that I have."

"It means that to achieve an elusive objective, you must proceed slowly, stealthily, in small increments. We don't know how much longer Jody will be here and you might be tempted to jump into the father role with both feet. If I might offer some advice...?"

"Please do! I need all the help I can get!"

"Let's back up a little... Jody functions best in a structured environment. His equilibrium demands routine. When he's confronted with a strange new situation, his instinct is to find out all he can about it before allowing himself to become involved... or deciding to disengage entirely. This is exactly what he did when he found out about you. Remember... he's very, very intelligent. That's how he was able to plan ahead for this big adventure he went on. I was probably the only one who wasn't surprised that he was able to carry it out.

" 'Going by the home ranch to see his sister was no doubt a spur-of-the-moment action—atypical for Jody. If I'd known he was going to do that, I would have tried to prevent it. What occurred there blew his plans out of the water, and he didn't have time to think how he was going to approach you. Being made head wrangler was another bad idea. Too much responsibility... and, again, interfered with his goal.

"To get back to your question, I believe the trigger isn't a single definable incident but a culmination of all that's happened in the past three weeks. Too many crises in too short a time for him to absorb and resolve. The best way for you to learn to know your son is to treat him as if you've been together forever. Don't push or press for information... let him make the overtures to you..."

"I've tried that approach with John," Murdoch said glumly. "And you saw... or heard, rather, where that got me! With Scott, if I ask a direct question I get a direct answer."

"That's because your boys are horses of different colors."

The closest pasture in their line of sight happened to be the one containing eleven recent postpartum mares—all solid chestnuts, sorrels or bays with black points. No white markings were visible. Of the eleven foals—from day-old to several weeks—one was solid black, three were brown-coated like their dams and seven were palominos in varying shades, or would be once their coats darkened.

"Looks like your breeding program's working out..."

Unsure if some oblique and possibly bawdy double entendre had just been tossed his way, Murdoch gave her a side glance then chortled ruefully. "Not as well as I'd like! About a sixty percent success rate so far. You know, I first met Ed Montero about ten years ago—bought four mares in foal, two bays and two chestnuts. He guaranteed at least two of them would throw palominos and all four did. Went back and bought four more mares. Only got two golds that time. They're fine animals and they fetch good prices, but none of them breed true. I'll never get rich off them."

"The breeder who finally succeeds will... but Jody says it can't be done."

"No one's done it yet but we keep trying. Why does he say that?"

"He's interested in genetics... it's a new field, based on the studies of Abbot Gregor Mendel in Europe," Cat said. "Originally he was looking at agronomy, but I think once he completes his undergraduate work at Capistrano Mission we might be looking at postgraduate school overseas. If he still wants to pursue that."

"Genetics?"

"Jody doesn't agree with current scientific thinking—which is that children inherit traits fifty-fifty... equally from both parents. If that were true, siblings would look and act alike when more often they do not. Were all eleven mares bred to the same stallion?"

"Well... yes... our cremello Thoroughbred..."

"There you go... none of your three sons look like you, although each have acquired a few of your traits. Scott got your height, blue-gray eyes and fair hair—assuming it was fair before you went gray..."

"It was..."

"Johnny's eyes must have come from your side of the family... maybe a little of your stubbornness?"

"My father's eyes were that deep blue..."

"I haven't yet determined what Jody's inherited from you, but our son's got that peculiar shade of blue sooooooo..."

"You seem confident that he'll be going back to school..."

"Doesn't hurt to maintain an optimistic attitude, does it?"

"I suppose not."

"You might consider upgrading Johnny's education."

"I don't believe he's college material. And I doubt he'd agree to it, anyway."

Cat shrugged. "Never know until you try. He'd have to earn a high school equivalency diploma first, like Teresa did. I don't know him well enough to judge, but it seems likely that if his brothers are bright enough to achieve higher education, he could do just as well if he were properly motivated." (Fat chance! Murdoch was thinking.)

**Murdoch was saying** he'd certainly give that thought careful consideration when Maria Elena came up behind them. The buggy was parked by the kitchen entrance and the others were waiting for him. Cat walked back with him, joining up with Teresa as the latter hurried up from the school, classes dismissed for the day. Scott was also present.

The three women fussed around Murdoch, ensuring he was adequately cushioned with cane at hand plus a spare, and sacks and pillows on which to rest his bad leg. Two bulging picnic baskets were loaded onboard. A look passed between Vicente, who was driving, and the _patrón_. As soon as they were out of sight of these pesky women, the cushions, sacks, pillows and walking sticks would be relegated to the back of the buggy along with the edible provisions. No way was Murdoch Lancer going to appear in front of his _compañeros_ as a mollycoddled old cripple! Furthermore, it was his intention to turf Ron off his horse so that he could ride into camp properly astride at the head of the column, as the commanding general should.

Murdoch (reservedly) promised Teresa and Maria Elena that he wouldn't be gone more than four nights at the most, that he'd limit any saddle time to less than an hour at a stretch, with an hour's break inbetween, and that he would _use_ the walking stick. (Fingers crossed out of sight.)

Teresa (happily) promised that if any news of great import arrived, a rider would immediately be dispatched to locate him.

Jelly (fervently) promised to look after the womenfolk and avoid getting into arguments with Maria Elena.

Maria Elena (excitedly) promised she'd worry every moment he was away and, as soon as she heard he was on the way back, she'd produce the most splendid feast ever!

Vicente (gloomily) promised he'd stick with Murdoch every moment to make sure he honored his promises. (Fingers crossed behind his back.)

Johnny (speciously) promised Murdoch he would follow instructions and behave himself (which wasn't a given considering how many other promises he'd made and broken in the past).

Scott (assuredly) promised that he would do his utmost to ensure his brother lived up to his promises.

Gabe (irritably) promised he was going to expire of old age before they ever got this show on the road.

At last Vicente chucked to the team and the buggy rolled away with its outriders.

**Much to his chagrin, **Murdoch found himself enjoying an extremely comfortable ride and not so much looking forward to getting on a horse. He couldn't recall when he'd last felt so optimistic. Each of his sons was on the road to recovery, even if Jody was encountering a temporary (he hoped) glitch. He detected no misgivings in himself as to a favorable relationship with all three... if he followed Cat's advice and presented himself in bite-size, easy-to-assimilate chunks rather than broadsiding them with the whole fatherhood issue. Something about letting the mountains come to Mohammad. The future was looking better and brighter, aside from Jody's legal problems, which he prayed would find a speedy resolution.

Cat had told him that although she expected she'd be going home by the end of the week, she fully intended to return within a month—bringing that precious grandchild to be introduced to the family.

Murdoch leaned out from his seat for one last look at the _hacienda_ before it disappeared from sight behind its skirt of live oaks—white-washed parapets and tower gleaming in the afternoon sun. When Vicente asked him why he was smiling so broadly, Murdoch could only say it was about everything... about home and family and love.


	70. Chapter 70

**• • • • • EPILOGUE • • • • •**

_Chapter 70:_

In the weeks and months following... Jody recovered from his fugue and suffered no more relapses. Father and brothers were delighted as he gradually opened up, becoming more personable and witty (which Catriona later confirmed was most out of character for him!). All three brothers were deemed well enough by Doctor Samuel Jenkins (and Teresa) to resume horseback riding... in moderation, naturally. No tearing up and down rough terrain or jumping obstacles for some time yet, with arm still in slings. TeresaAngelica O'Brian usually rode along as monitor on tours of the _estancia_. Personal mounts had been returned from Condor and restored to their owners—Barranca to Johnny, Leda to Teresa and Farida to Jody (although technically Farida was stolen property). Charlemagne was still on pasture recuperation so Scott had to make do with Murdoch's Major. Doctor Sam sternly instructed Murdoch to abstain from riding until he was able to walk around unaided by the cane.

Marshall Eugene Everett Sammons retirement date was coming up and he took the coach back to Los Angeles after having been advised by his home office that the 'prisoner' could be released into the custody of his father until further notice. Murdoch immediately consulted, via telegraph, with his friend and associate, Judge A.C. Bradford, on several issues. One: Were there any formalities involved in having Jody legally declared his son? 'Ace' Bradford opined none were needed as Murdoch's name was already on the boy's birth certificate, natural son or no. Two: Were Jody and Cat legally married? That might pose a problem, according to Ace, as the person who gave consent at the couple's wedding was not legally empowered to do so. His advice was: as the boy was only nineteen and still required parental consent, trot them over to the nearest ordained minister or justice of the peace and get 'er done all nice and legal-like. Murdoch put that on his to-do list.

Catriona Christiansen Lancer and Doctor Paul Evrard LaPierre took the same stagecoach south as Marshal Eugene Sammons. A relatively pleasant trip was had by all and they shook hands all around at Butterfield's north Los Angeles station. Cat was met by Cicero Curtis, with assurances that Joshua Christian Lancer had been thoroughly spoiled rotten in her absence. Marcia LaPierre was there to collect her husband Paul. Eugene's wife Abigail Sammons also made an appearance and was introduced all around, a rotund apple-cheeked little lady with merry eyes.

Three weeks elapsed before Cat was able to make the return trip to Lancer as she undertook a flying visit home to make some arrangements with her stepfather and mother and catch up on bookkeeping. She had a grand plan concerning Jody's sisters, which she'd first presented to Charles Chase Cameron III and which was later happily accepted by Elisandro and Alexandra Montero. It involved building a newer, larger residence at Vista Montero for an expanded family.

A day and a half on a stagecoach with an eighteen-month-old wasn't an appealing prospect. The solution was to keep the child mildly sedated with drugs provided by Trey's physician. The journey was made without incident. Shortly thereafter little Josh, in the arms of his beaming grandfather, attended his parents' reaffirmation of vows before Green River's Presbyterian minister who also happened to be the township's justice of the peace. (Double indemnity, Murdoch reckoned.) The proud uncles were also in attendance.

A festive _baile_ for family, friends and all the _estancia's_ personnel was held later that evening at the Lancer _hacienda_. By then Maria Elena Melendez and her team of miracle workers had completely cleared out and refurbished the ground floor of the east wing. (Johnny was not to learn of the real reason behind its twenty years of disuse until after Murdoch's passing.) Jody and Cat were installed in the master suite for the duration of their stay.

In the matter of State of California vs. Jordáno Rafael Esteban Montero y Marín (aka Jordan Marín Lancer) and Martha Felicia Georgina Montero y Marín, attempted murder, San Diego County Judge Thomas H. Bush tried to lob off the case to Tulare County District Judge A.C. Bradford up in Mariposa, in response to a query from his old friend Trey Cameron as to a possible change of venue. Bradford was having none of it and swiftly returned the serve to Chula Vista's court. He had enough successful murders with which to contend, thank you very much, and had no time for failed ones.

Tommy Bush probably should have recused himself from the case as he was personally acquainted with the alleged victim and found the man both repulsive and reprehensible. However, in the interest of fairness and impartiality (and because no other judge was available... or willing), he endeavored to practice due diligence by setting a date for a hearing in the (comfortably) far-off future and assigning a reluctant prosecuting attorney to pursue the matter and a fairly competent minor clerk to catalog data.

PA Claude Jones assembled a meagre collection of facts and evidence supplied by the local sheriff who had attended the scene of the alleged attempted murder. Sheriff Alan Johnson had been unable to ascertain the perpetrator(s) as there was considerable doubt as to who had fired the first shot and who had wielded the knife. Identities of the three persons involved and ownership of the knife were undisputed. However, the bullet recovered from the alleged victim did not match the gun found in the room.

Sheriff Johnson had taken the statement from the girl claiming responsibility for both the shooting and the stabbing of her father. Jody further muddied the waters by denying his sister's confession and owning up to having committed the offense. The sheriff had also taken statements from a dozen other persons volunteering their involvement. PA Jones' legal assistant, detailed to gather depositions from character witnesses, found himself with a handful of positive attestations and an apple crate full of mainly defamatory statements

Judge Bush eyed this literary outpouring of rage and frustration and decided he didn't have enough time remaining on the bench to examine every piece. Of one thing he was convinced: Ed Montero was evil, the devil incarnate—it was a wonder the man didn't spontaneously combust... which, in a manner of speaking, he did (most fortuitously, in Judge Bush's estimation!) not long thereafter...

Eduardo Felipe Xavier Montero y Esquivel expired after having incurred a massive myocardial infarction brought on during a screaming fit at his cadre of caregivers—to everyone's enduring relief... especially his children's. His body was interred at Saint Ignacio of Juarez Cemetery (nowhere near his deceased wife) with only the presiding padre, Jody and Ed's brother Eli in attendance. (Jody would have preferred to dump his ashes down the nearest latrine... but, of course, the Catholic Church doesn't permit cremation.)

With the death of the chief complainant, the case against Jody and his sister Martha also withered and died from lack of interest. Every court in California suffered from an immense backlog of capital crimes, of which _attempted_ murder wasn't one. Even if it had ever come to a hearing, Judge Bush would have refused to indict. Even if an indictment had taken place, he would have ruled justifiable something or other. No one quibbled when the case was dismissed.

Crown Montero Stud immediately went into conservatorship under the aegis of Cameron, Ogier, Eaton, Kewen, Howard & Cameron, Attorneys at Law, as Señor Montero had never got around to revising his last will and testament following his wife's demise. Upon Ed Montero's incapacitation, Trey Cameron had nominated Charles Cicero Curtis, Jr. as temporary estate manager. Chuck was unanimously accepted by the partnership and temporarily residenced at the _hacienda_, where he stayed as far away from Ed as possible while competently discharging his duties. (His wife Ernestine was not best pleased at this separation but recognized this as an important step up the ladder of a career in business management.)

Of the primary beneficiaries, neither Jody Montero-Lancer nor Eli Montero wanted anything to do with the ranch, and the three girls were entirely too young. The decision was made to liquidate the estate and place the proceeds in trust until the children came of legal age. Elizondo and Alexandra Montero, Jordan and Catriona Lancer, and Martha Montero made one last trip to the _hacienda_ in a carriage accompanied by two freight wagons. With legal representatives James Cameron and Chuck Curtis and two burly porters, they went from room to room selecting items—bits of furnishings and keepsakes—they wished to retain. Martha oversaw removal of all her personal effects plus that of her sisters. Martha's own riding horse and her sisters' ponies would be going with. Everything remaining would be auctioned off.

Before the estate could be publicly placed on the market, a consortium of real estate developers galloped forward with a more than generous offer for the entire property. What they were really after were the two and a half miles of prime beachfront plus a natural deep harbor begging for commercial development as a seaport. Cameron_ et al _played hard to get and niggled the future sea-transport empire-builders up to five figures, just a smidgen short of six.

Murdoch Alexander Lancer was appointed overseer of dispersal of Crown Montero's equine stock. His negotiated fee for this service was his choice of two stallions and sixteen brood mares in foal and/or with foals at heel. (How to move them over two hundred miles north was his problem.) An auction was set for later in the summer and widely advertised months in advance.

Prior to the auction, for which Murdoch's presence was mandatory, he made another journey south to select his eighteen horses. Stopping in San Clemente along the way, he persuaded Jody to accompany him to point out the mares most likely to produce the desired gold. Scott and Johnny had been looking forward to making this trip but were unfortunately once again indisposed. Having been somewhat overserved at an upscale saloon in Visalia, the two had managed to become embroiled in a difference of opinion over who had seen what girl first, resulting in a broken arm for Johnny and Scott having been accidentally shot in the foot. Literally. Murdoch was furious—especially because they'd done this to each other—but resigned. His boys simply could _not_ stay out of trouble.

Martha Felicia Georgina Montero y Marín was freed from the breach of contract suit. What the Mexican government considered a perfectly acceptable trade—a bride for land—the United States government regarded as white slavery. Threats were hurled back and forth across the border, including possible trade sanctions. In the end the disgruntled estranged fiance was sternly advised by his own department of justice to avoid an international diplomatic incident by taking back his ten thousand acres plus improvements and buying himself another child bride from his own side of the border.

Although the Montero sisters remained under the legal guardianship of James Cameron, their physical custody was awarded to their sister-in-law Catriona Lancer who, being over twenty-one, was of age and of sterling character and competency. They would continue residing at Our Lady until Cat and Jody's new, much larger home, currently under construction at Vista Montero, was ready for occupancy. They were overjoyed to be reunited with their beloved brother, and thrilled at the prospect of attending public school for the very first time along with their cousins, Eli and Lexi's boys. Martha would get her shot at college—the same one her brother was about to rejoin to repeat his missed senior year.

Teresa Angelica O'Brian and her guardian, after much wrangling back and forth, arrived at a compromise: She could apply to Capistrano Mission College, two hundred forty miles south in San Juan Capistrano (only thirty miles from Jody and Cat's home) or the new College of California two hundred miles northwest in Oakland—her choice if accepted by both. Then... and only then... if her grades warranted during those four years of attendance, she could apply to the Woman's Medical College of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. By then she'd be over twenty-one and released from Murdoch's guardianship... but she'd still need him to underwrite tuition.

Sheriff Warren Valentine Crawford, upon hearing that Teresa O'Brian would be going off to college in the autumn, sorrowfully extinguished the torch he'd been carrying for the Lancer ward and in short order took to courting the comely librarian, Mary Alice Butterworth, at Green River's brand new public library.

Maria Elena Melendez would not be retiring as threatened. How could she, with Teresa going away to school and Nereida Dominguez and Ivelisse Guevarra simultaneously announcing their engagements to Miguel Vega and Felipe Reyes, respectively (weddings to follow later that summer)? She'd still have Inés Mechoso but they'd have to start training up some younger girls _inmediatamente!_ When she complained to her husband, Cipriano yielded private thanks to The Blessed Lady that his beloved wife would continue keeping busy at the Big House and not bustling around their cottage nagging him incessantly the way she did Jelly!

Nothing changed for Jellifer Barnes Hoskins except that his pet gander, Dewdrop, acquired a mate, Snowflake, who hatched out a round dozen goslings. Wherever he went thereafter, all fourteen geese trailed behind, leaving a trail of slimy goose poo and screeches of feminine indignation when they followed him indoors.

Aaron Jacob Goldman returned home with jingle in his pocket and the realization that the cowboy way wasn't quite as romantic as he'd envisioned (for which his long-suffering parents were grateful). He vowed to return to school in the fall, study until his eyeballs fell out, make good grades so he could get into that new college in Oakland, and become a scientist of some sort—chemistry, perhaps. He and Jody remained friends and wrote to each other irregularly. He still thought of Jody as _'Sombra Joey'_ and often regaled fellow diners with vividly described anecdotes of the ear lopping incident.

Juan Sebastián and Margarita Guadalupe Espinoza enjoyed their diamond anniversary week in Morro Coyo so much they decided to live there permanently in a tiny cottage on the outskirts of town, purchased with money from Gabriel Pierre McClanahan, who also decided it was time to give up being a mountain man at age seventy-five. He bought the rights to their _pulque_ and _mezcal_ production facility, and moved right into the vacated adobe hut along with Myrtice the mule—technically on Lancer land but Murdoch had no problem with that.

Stanley Franklin Laurence's and Oliver Pope Hardison's short venture into the world of bounty hunting, thuggery and kidnapping fizzled out with thirty days in jail on a charge of disturbing the peace, with credit for time served while recuperating in Doctor Sam Jenkin's infirmary.

The sheriff had directed Paul's and Cat's wagon toward Doc's place and walked over there to meet them. When the two men came around, they found themselves handcuffed to iron bedsteads. Cat and Paul had come clean on who _they_ really were (and what they weren't), declined to press charges and bought the sheriff a beer over at the Hair 'O the Dawg saloon.

On the day Stan and Ollie were released, after counting out the money the two thugs'd had on their person, the sheriff assessed a fine of exactly that much, less the cost of two stagecoach tickets out of town. They were never again seen in those parts.

••••• **THE END** •••••

**_Author's Note:_**_ The Lancer Estancia and its original denizens are not mine… alas! But a gal can dream!_

_Muchas Gracious to my indefatigable and annoying cheerful beta, Sally Bahnsen, who—in a moment of mental aberration—  
>foolishly but graciously agreed to slog through this. Any bloopers, goobers, misspellings, typos, redundancies, gremlins,<br>hairballs, and blatant anachronisms are entirely due to my own lack of attention, not hers!_


End file.
